


Ad astra

by beamirang



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Action/Adventure, Alien Character(s), Alien Culture, Antar, Bickering, Blackmail, Childhood Sweethearts, Epic Bromance, F/F, Genocide, Idiots in Love, M/M, Manipulation, Medical Jargon, Mildly Dubious Consent, Military Science Fiction, Mystery, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sex Pollen, Space Politics, Star Trek AU, Tarsus IV, mysterious pasts, several of them - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beamirang/pseuds/beamirang
Summary: Michael’s been picked up off the floor of more bars than he can count. Usually by irate bartenders, occasionally by begrudging crew members of whatever ship he’s serving on... and then there are the times he’s been arrested…But he can say without a doubt that it’s been a long, long time since he’s been hauled up off his ass by his old Academy roommate.AKA the Star Trek AU that won't leave me in peace.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All I can say is this isn't my fault. I was encouraged and enabled and I haven't slept in two and a half days. 
> 
> This fic is an attempt to blend TOS, Reboot Trek, and Roswell mythologies into one decidedly batshit space opera epic adventure. There will be snark. There will be villains and plot and plotty villains. There will be idiots in love. There will be a misuse of both physics and medicine. 
> 
> There won't be as much sex as this chapter might imply there will be.

Michael’s been picked up off the floor of more bars than he can count. Usually by irate bartenders, occasionally by begrudging crew members of whatever ship he’s serving on... and then there are the times he’s been arrested…

But he can say without a doubt that it’s been a long, _long_ time since he’s been hauled up off his ass by his old Academy roommate.

He’s just sober enough to know that there’s no good reason for Starfleet’s Golden Boy to be here on this shithole of a planet and just drunk enough to be really fucking amused by the sight of him.

“Alex Manes,” he drawls, a lazy grin stretching across his face. “Sorry, it’s Captain Manes now, isn’t it? Bet Daddy’s real proud. What’s a good boy like you doing all the way out here?”

Some things are universal constants: Alex’s ability to look at him like he’s the single biggest fuck up in the Quadrant is one he perfected when they were teenagers. Granted, Michael’s more than earned that look over the years.

The newly minted Captain Manes throws down enough credits to cover Michael’s tab and dumps him sideways into a booth at the back of the bar. “I’d ask what you’ve been drinking,” Alex says, “but I really don’t want to know.”

He slides into the seat opposite Michael, and that’s the perfect chance for Michael to lean over the table between them and whisper conspiratorially, “I think it’s rocket fuel.” He’s close enough to Alex to smell his cologne. It’s not the same one he used to wear, and Michael can’t decide why he has any right to be disappointed. It’s not like he’s seen Alex since graduation. This is certainly the closest they’ve ever been to each other since... “What’re you doing here, Alex?”

“Captain,” Alex says.

Great, fine. A decade on the fast track and he’s that asshole. “What’re you doing here Captain Alex? Don't you have a shiny new ship to run?”

He used to be able to read Alex like a map. Now, he’s getting nothing. 

"I'm here about that shiny new ship," Alex says. Even way out here, everyone and his dog knows that Alex Manes, Starfleet's youngest Captain, has just taken command of the USS Enterprise. “She's the best ship in the fleet,” Alex says, a calm, centered pride in his eyes that Michael can't begrudge. “I want her to have the best crew.”

“And you're talking to me because?”

“Stop fishing, Guerin, you know you're the best. When you're sober, at least. Acetone distilleries in the Jeffries Tubes?”

“It's like you don't even know me,” Michael scoffs, a flinch turning inward because he supposes it's true. They aren't precocious kids at the Academy anymore. It's been... it's been a long damn time. The surface level confidence Alex once hid behind has been earned, branded into his skin, soldered into an impenetrable amour. And Michael... well, Michael has the dubious honor of having three different COs try to get him dishonorably discharged.

“I know everything I need to know, Guerin,” Alex says. He leans back against the booth and watches Michael with eyes that see far more than they have any right to. “I know that when you were a student at the Academy, the Engineering track stopped including your test scores in the class rankings because you fucked with the curve. I know you turn down every position you’re offered and get yourself kicked out of the ones you can’t. You can’t imagine a world outside of Starfleet, which is why you’ve never quit, but at the same time you don’t trust the chain of command, so you play dumb. Which, in my opinion, is worse than being incompetent.”

“Then why the fuck do you want me on your sparkly new ship?” Michael demands. There’s an abject sense of betrayal crawling under his skin, one that infuriates him.

“Because I know you,” Alex says and has the fucking nerve to be smug about it. “You don’t play well with others, and you don’t take orders from people you think you’re smarter than. It makes you a dick.”

“This might actually be the worst recruitment spiel I’ve ever heard,” Michael points out. “If this is you trying to convince me to come play in your little country club engineering department then-“

“I don’t want you to play in the department, Guerin,” Alex interrupts him. “I want you to _run_ it.”

Lieutenant Michael Guerin, Chief Engineer of the USS Enterprise. Ha. Okay yeah, that’s funny.

“What,” Michael asks, glancing towards the bar and weighing up the chances of him getting somebody to serve him another drink, “in that long list of character defects you just recited, makes me in any way the person you want keeping your ship in the black?”

“Eleven hundred,” Alex says. “That's the number of people I’m responsible for. That’s the number of lives I have to balance when making this equation.” Alex always has been a fucking numbers geek: it’s one of the first things they bonded over. The first thing they fought over as well. “You fuck your own life up on a near…” he looks around the bar warily, “hourly basis. I’m not even sure I’d trust you with a pair of scissors right now. But-“ he reaches out and grabs hold of the fingers Michael’s drumming on the table, and it’s the first time someone has touched him in forever. “I know I can trust you with my crew.”

There have been times in Michael’s life where he’ll do anything for one of Alex’s smiles, and there have been times when he’s been haunted by them. He’s got four years of memories, four years of lies, and he thinks he knows each one well enough to know that Alex is telling him the truth.

“Why?” It’s a broken, desolate word. Why does he still trust Michael after everything Michael has done? Why now? Why not years ago?

“Because I loved you,” Alex says, like it’s that simple. “And I think you loved me.”

He has no fucking idea. Therein lies the problem. Alex, at seventeen, at twenty-one, had no fucking clue how to love anyone, or what love even looked like in return. Michael’s got the prerequisite Tragic Orphan Backstory that just makes his sad little pity party of a life complete, but he’s always had Max and Isobel. He had them when they were found together in a refugee camp filled with the desolate and despairing. He had them even as he bounced from one care home to another, always a focal point to run to. He had them at the Academy, where different career tracks and workloads and relationships kept them separate if not apart. He even has them now, disappointed and worried though they always seem to be.

A lot might change over the years, but back then he was the only person to _ever_ love Alex.

And Alex responded to that love by blindly handing over his heart for Michael to do whatever the fuck he wanted with it.

So yeah, Michael loved him.

And he destroyed him, too.

He shakes his head. Alex is supposed to be smarter now. He’s a fucking war hero. They gave him the Medal of Honor. Michael’s read the reports - hacked the reports - and he knows what happened to Alex on Tycho IV. He knows how many people Alex saved. He knows how many he lost. A man who has seen and done the things Alex has shouldn’t be smiling at their childhood sweetheart, the words ‘ _here’s my heart, feel free to break it all over again_ ’ written in the depths of his eyes.

Michael laughs in disbelief. “What’s that got to do with trust?”

“Tell me you don’t want it,” Alex says. That’s nothing new, either. Alex might be unguarded and vulnerable in matters of the heart, but he’s fucking ruthless everywhere else. “Tell me you enjoy this: being looked down and mocked by people you can run rings around in your sleep. Tell me that being Chief on the Fleet’s flagship hasn’t been your dream your whole damn life.”

So what if it has? Michael doesn’t get his dreams. Alex is proof of that.

He drags a frustrated hand through his hair. It’s not been regulation short in six months, and his XO has stopped trying. “There’s no way the Brass’d approve it.”

Alex’s a shark scenting blood. That tiny crack of want in Michael is a red fucking flag to charge. “They already have. Unanimously.”

“Archer’s agreed to let me on your ship?”

The corner of Alex’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, he’s still pissed about the beagle.”

“In my defense,” Michael says hesitantly, “I never planned to lose his favorite prize-winning dog.”

“Of course,” Alex nods, and now he’s laughing straight at him. Dick.

Christ, but he’s managed to grow even more beautiful over the years. How the fuck’s that happened? His hair is shorter, and there are faint lines at the corners of his eyes, signs of experience and toil. But memory doesn’t do justice to the curve of his mouth, pinker than in any holo Michael owns, and the sharp caffeine and anxiety fueled skinniness of his teens has developed into shoulders that fill out an expensive maroon sweater better than they have any right to. He’s still got the same narrow waist, and Michael reckons his hips will fit just the same in the curves of his hands.

Fuck him. Literally, figuratively, and everything in between.

“I mean it, Guerin,” Alex says. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t already have your transfer papers.”

So there’s the billion credit question. “What about Admiral Manes?”

Alex’s expression doesn’t so much as twitch. “My father is in complete agreement that you’re the best man for the job.”

Holy fuck. _Alex, what did you do?_

Looking across the table, Michael doesn’t see Captain Alex Manes. He sees the boy he once loved with all his heart. The boy who once promised him a dream and now, years later, is handing it to him. He doesn’t think, reaching across space between them and drawing Alex close enough to press their mouths together. It’s something he’s done a hundred times before. Something he has no right to do now.

Something Alex should punch him for.

Alex doesn’t punch him. He lets Michael kiss him.

He kisses Michael back.

When they part, Alex doesn’t pull away, his forehead pressed against Michael’s and his eyes closed in regret. “Guerin, I’m your Captain. I don’t sleep with people serving on my ship.” The words are spoken only a breath from Michael’s lips, and they sink into his bones, heavy and laced with disappointment. ‘I won’t take advantage of you.”

He can live with that, can’t he? He’s had years to get over Alex. Seeing him every day and not having what they once had isn’t going to kill him. Not when he has the vast beauty of the Enterprise to play in. Not when he has everything he's ever wanted.

“You sent those papers yet?” he finds himself asking.

Alex’s eyes open, a sonnet written in colors Michael would know at the end of the universe. “No,” he breathes.

They don’t make it any further than the back alley of the bar. The music from inside doesn’t seem any quieter out here, and it’s joined by a cacophony of nightlife symphonies. Alex’s grunt and the soft moan he makes into Michael’s mouth are sounds he remembers from a hundred breathless nights together. His hands sink into Michael’s hair and tug sharply until the sounds Michael makes match his own.

Kissing Alex is a homecoming, at once familiar and comfortable, painful and changed. If this is all Michael is going to get, he’ll take that chance to rewrite faded memories with the taste of his mouth and the sound of his desire.

They fumble like teenagers again, relearning the lines of each other’s body, hands tracing paths over trails once well known but now uncertain, and the more Michael kisses him, the harder it is to remember why he ever stopped.

He still makes the same sounds; the same hurt little whimper when Michael bites at his lip, the same sharp inhalation when they part for breath, the same wanton moan that slides like silk down Michael’s spine.

Michael shoves him up against the wall, hard and rough, and any minute now, someone is going to see them. No one knows who he is, no one cares, oh, but _Alex_ … Alex is on posters. He’s a Federation hero. The boy with the impeccable family legacy, Starfleet’s youngest Captain, their golden star.

He pulls Alex’s stupidly soft maroon sweater over his head and tugs it sharply to bunch around his arms. When he takes a fistful of the fabric and twists it, he's able to trap Alex’s forearms tightly behind his back before pushing him face first up against the wall.

“Still worried about taking advantage of me?” Michael asks, nipping sharply at the curve of Alex’s ear.

Alex, pinned between Michael and the wall, his wrists trapped and evidence of Michael’s arousal pressing against his ass, manages to throw a look over his shoulder that’s pure and utter filth. “You’ve always been shit at following orders,” he says, making no attempt to free himself. "Why change the habit of a lifetime?"

Yeah, that’s true. Michael might’ve been that wide-eyed, enthusiastic student, but he’s always had a chip on his shoulder when it comes to authority figures.

“You don't care if someone sees?” Michael asks him, a hand reaching around to fumble awkwardly with Alex’s belt.

Any hesitation he might have about going forward is wiped away by the fall of dark lashes. Alex closes his eyes and pushes back into Michael’s body, and a sudden wave of tenderness breaks through his passion like the crest of a wave. "No."

They’ve done this before. Not often, but enough, at times when Michael’s needed the stability of control and Alex has craved the comfort of relinquishing it. When they’ve both needed the noises in their heads to go quiet, just for a little while.

He’s more experienced now, and the things they did together seem tame compared to some of his adult exploits, but he wonders if Alex has ever allowed himself to be vulnerable like this with anyone else.

“Okay darlin’,” Michael heard what goes unsaid. He gets the buttons of Alex’s jeans undone and shoves tight fabric down his thighs to bunch just above his knees. His fingers find old scars amongst the new and he can’t help the kiss he presses to Alex’s collarbone. It’s a sweet moment shattered by Alex’s desperate cry when Michael finally puts a hand on his dick.

As back alley fucks go, Michael’s had worse experiences. Alex’s loud and he always has been. He moans around the fingers Michael shoves in his mouth and he curses up a storm when they open him up. His hips do still fit in the curves of Michael’s hands, and he’s shameless in pushing for more contact, more speed, _more_.

“I swear to fucking god, Guerin,” he hisses, his head thrown back to press against Michael’s shoulder. He can’t spread his legs any wider without removing his jeans, but that doesn’t stop him trying.

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael grins. Fucking Alex is just as much fun as being fucked by Alex, and this is somewhere between those serious times times when Alex trusted himself to Michael’s hands, and the last six months of their relationship. Sex back then had been wild, and it’d always been hard to tell if they were fighting or fucking. One usually led to the other.

Alex is about to be his Captain. About to be closer than ever, and never further out of reach.

Let him send that transfer request with Michael’s fingerprints pressed into his skin.

They’ve got nothing to ease the process. Spit and a shove and they make do, Alex’s broken cries entwined with the filthiest of curses. Good Starfleet boys aren’t supposed to know words like that. Officers like Alex are supposed to above such crass, base language.

He says as such and Alex calls him a son of a whore. He says it in Andorian, so it’s a compliment, and he chants Michael’s name like a benediction.

It’s rough and painful and perfect, and apparently Michael _likes_ being cursed six ways to Sunday when it’s Alex’s filthy mouth doing it, and Alex’s squirming, sweat slick body that presses back against him, meeting every sharp thrust with a cant of his own hips.

There can’t be anyone in the vicinity that doesn’t know what they’re doing and neither of them care.

Michael doesn’t come until after Alex does. He holds him through the crescendo of his climax then remembers he’s not a complete dick, and finishes himself off in his hand instead of leaving Alex to walk back to his digs sticky and despoiled.

He wipes himself on his jeans, then untangles Alex’s sweater from his arms and wraps himself around him, holding on tightly until they both stop shaking, and frantic, broken breaths ease and find synchronization together.

These have always been his favorite moments. The time fracture of peace that follows in the wake of passion. This is the moment he’s always wanted to stay in.

Eventually though, Alex starts to pull away, dragging his jeans over shaking thighs and trying to bring order to the damp disary of his hair.

When he turns in Michael’s arms, it’s with swollen, abused lips curled into a satisfied smile and a well known twinkle in his eyes.

And an unmistakable indicator of what’s just happened written on his face.

Cringing, Michael reaches out to touch the raw, red scrape of skin on Alex’s cheekbone. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he is. He never wants to hurt Alex, not accidentally at least, not in a way he doesn’t want.

Alex touches the spot and sighs dramatically. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this,” he grumbles to himself.

Suddenly realizing that maybe fucking your new CO in a seedy back alley five minutes after he offers you a job is maybe not the best idea for an easy workplace transition, Michael shuffles his feet awkwardly. “Do you need-“

“I’m good,” Alex says, already smoothing down the edge of his sweater.

For a genius, Michael’s a fucking idiot. Ten years. Ten years of memories made peace with and now he’s scrubbed those scabbed wounds wide open.

“Right, I, er-“

“Guerin,” Alex is smiling, apparently far more at ease with what’s just happened than Michael is. “Relax. That was fun. It’ll never happen again-“

“No, no, right,” Michael nods quickly.

Alex reaches out and touches his cheek gently. “But thank you. I’ll get those papers filed. Report at ship’s dock at on-nine hundred tomorrow morning. My XO will meet you there and handle your induction before you see the Quatermaster.”

He’s all business now, and how he can be so calm and professional when he looks like he’s been mauled by a bear, Michael doesn’t know.

“Oh-nine-hundred. Got it. Wait, who is your XO?”

Alex starts to laugh, and if that’s not the scariest thing that’s happened all night, Michael doesn’t know what is.

He starts to walk off, then turns and throws him the same blinding grin he remembers from the Academy. “Your brother,” he says. “Lieutenant Commander Evans.”

He leaves on that note, his laughter following him and Michael leans back against the wall with a curse.

Forget fulfilling a life long dream.

This post is going to be a fucking nightmare.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now The Old Astronomer has wrapped up, updates will be more frequent. Thank you so much for your enthusiasm!

In the grand scheme of things, getting fucked in a seedy alley by his new Chief Engineer is hardly the worst decision Alex has ever made, but damn if it doesn’t make for a fucking awkward evening.

Seeing Michael is always going to stir up painful emotions and in hindsight, it’s foolish of him to think their first encounter in years would end any other way.

There was a time when Alex’s whole life begun and ended with Michael Guerin. He’d thought - hoped - time and tragedy might correct the errant course of his heart, but if anything it’s done the opposite. He’s kept track on Guerin over the years, done his best to keep him out of the worst of the trouble he seems to attract. It’s never been enough, not to make amends for what he did, but now… now he has the chance.

He can fix things with Guerin, and be the Captain his crew needs. He can keep the Admiralty happy, keep his father happy, do his job, live up to the absurd legacy he’s inherited and do right by the trillions of people who seem to think he’s the answer to all their problems.

Maybe if he’s really lucky, he won’t go completely insane in the process.

Step one of that process? Vow right here and now that he is never, ever, _ever_ sleeping with Michael Guerin again. _Ever_.

No matter how beautiful Alex thinks he is, no matter that he makes breathing easier just by being close.

And no matter how much Guerin might flirt with him.

He doesn’t _need_ Guerin. He’ll make things right with him, yes, but the only thing Alex _needs_ is his ship.

The second he’s beamed aboard, he knows he’s home.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Cameron greets him with her usual steely once over. She’s in charge of Ship’s security and seems to be of a mind that Alex should have a contingent of security officers with him whenever he’s not onboard.

“Cameron,” Alex nods in return. His senior crew only salute him the first time he sees them each shift rotation, or when they are under strict formalities. It goes a long way in keeping Alex sane. “Tell me you didn’t send someone to tail me.”

“You ordered me not to,” she says, her eyes silently adding the words ‘ _because you’re an idiot_ ’, “and I will always obey your orders, Captain.”

“Even if you think they’re stupid?” Alex chuckles. He likes Cam. She can kick his ass and she scares half the Ensigns shitless. Both are good traits in her position.

She looks pained, but nods. “Even then.”

“At least someone respects my authority,” Alex says dryly, leaving the transporter bay and heading towards the central turbolifts.

“So I’m guessing your conversation went well?” Max Evans asks with a small, hopeful smile, joining Alex in the corridor and falling into step beside him. His pace is noticeably shortened to match Alex stride for stride. As First Officers go, Alex has yet to make his mind up. On paper Evans is the best for the job and he comes highly recommend, but he was put in the position by Admiral Manes, and for that reason alone, Alex doesn’t trust him. The situation is far from ideal, and one Alex needs to get a grasp on sooner rather than later.

He’s hoping Guerin will be helpful.

“It was successful,” Alex says, nodding to a Yeoman who steps back out of his way and waits at attention until he and Evans have passed. “I trust you can get him up to speed quickly?” They’re docked only for another twelve hours. As soon as Guerin and the last of the supplies are aboard they have new orders. Alex isn’t expecting to get much chance to slow down for the next three weeks as they’re thrown in the deep end. In the past Alex could’ve expected at least six months to break in a new crew - and the crew their new Captain - but needs must. The Fleet is, for want of a better word, fucked. 

“Yes, Captain,” Evans says. They reach the turbolift and he allows Alex to hit the controls for the Officer’s Quarters on Deck 8. Then he starts to fidget, ever so slightly.

“Something to say, Evans?” Alex asks, an eyebrow rising. Evans has done a good job of not looking at the rising bruise on Alex’s cheek, but the man isn’t an idiot, nor is Alex in the mood for a lecture.

“No, sir,” Evans says. “Yes, sir. Permission to speak?” Alex nods warily. Here we go… “I just want to say thank you. For what you did.”

Alex blinks. Okay, he’s not expecting that. That, or Evan’s earnest, puppy-like expression. “What exactly did I do?” Alex asks. There’s only one person outside of the Admiralty who _knows_ what Alex has done, but that’s not stopped the rumors. Alex blames Archer: the man is still furious with Guerin, and now Alex by proxy.

Evans goes pink all the way up to his ears, but he still meets Alex’s gaze head on. Alex can respect that - begrudgingly. “There are some people who claim that you turned down the Captain’s position unless you could have Michael as your Chief Engineer,” Evans says, his voice carefully modulated.

“You shouldn’t listen to gossip, Lieutenant,” Alex smiles blandly.

“Of course not,” Evans nods.

“Why would I turn down the opportunity to be the youngest Captain in Starfleet history - Captain of the Enterprise none the less - on the merit of a man I’ve not seen since graduation? Or, for that matter, blackmail the Admiralty, because that is what you’re suggesting.”

Evans looks supremely uncomfortable at being called out. “Just. Thank you. For whatever you did. Or didn’t do. Michael’s had it rough: he deserves a second chance. And, er, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Alex asks, praying for the damn lift to stop moving.

Evans touches his cheekbone, reflecting the bruise on Alex’s own. “It kinda looks like he hit you. He’s a bit of a dick sometimes, but you could’ve brought him up on charges, changed your mind about offering him the post… I appreciate it.”

Maybe Evans is stupid after all. Stupid, but perhaps not a bad person. Alex sighs as the lift doors open and another three crew members dive to one side as if electrocuted. They’re falling over themselves to show respect and it’s exhausting just to watch.

“Go watch my ship, Lieutenant,” Alex dismisses him. Evans nods, a small, excited smile emerging just as the doors close.

Stepping into his quarters and letting the door slide closed behind him is the closest thing Alex can find to peace and solitude on a ship that never sleeps. He moves into the room, already familiar with the layout, and contemplates food. He is in desperate need of a shower, but the ache of Michael’s fingers still linger on his hips and he dares to think he might actually sleep tonight. Once he’s showered, he’s going to crash. If he wants to eat, it’s now or never.

He doesn’t really want to eat.

“Someone clearly had a good time,” a voice speaks out from the darkness.

“What the _motherfucking_ \- lights, fifty percent!” Alex shouts, fingers pausing before they pull his sweater over his head. The lights flare on. “What the actual fuck, Kyle?”

If Guerin is going to be the bane of Alex’s existence, the man holding second place smiles at him from the couch. “ _Hi, Kyle, nice to see you_ ,” Kyle says with mock sweetness in his voice, “ _how’re things in sickbay? I missed my physical, you say? Gasp! I’m Alex Manes, I would never do anything so reckless as to purposely fail to attend a mandatory session with my very best friend Doctor Valenti-_ ”

“What,” Alex asks, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a Kyle-shaped headache, “will it cost me to make you go away? A week’s salary? A month’s? Tell me. I’ll pay it. I’ll pay it twice.”

“Trying to bribe a Starfleet officer, Manes? How unbecoming.”

“Anything,” Alex moans, approaching the couch. He’s known Kyle for years - the man is a heat seeking missile. Once he’s locked on, there’s no escape.

Kyle’s already helped himself to the contents of Alex’s wet bar, but he has at least poured a second drink for Alex. He grabs it and downs half the contents.

“You couldn’t afford me,” Kyle sniffs, snatching up the brandy and refilling his glass.

“If this is your way of asking me for a blowjob-“ He’s joking - he meant what he said about not sleeping anyone in his crew - but he’s known and been intimate with Kyle many times over the past decade. He’s probably the only man he _can_ joke with these days.

Kyle wrinkles his nose and looks him up and down. “No offense, but I don’t know where you’ve been.” Alex flops down onto the couch and grimaces. Kyle knows him well enough to broadcast his actions and takes hold of his chin, angling him into the light. “Guerin do that?”

“Technically a wall did that,” Alex says, pulling out of Kyle’s grip and leaning back against the arm of the couch, his eyes closing.

“Just tell me you didn’t fuck him,” Kyle sighs.

“I didn’t fuck him,” Alex doesn’t open his eyes. Forget the shower… he’s sleeping here. Everything about his new quarters screams a level of comfort and luxury he’s not known since being a young boy. Even the couch is more comfortable than every bed he’s slept on since joining the Academy.

“Goddamnit, Alex,” Kyle grumbles. “What the hell is it about Guerin? You put your ass on the line for him - you call in favors you can’t afford to pay - and within five minutes of seeing him again, you’re-“

“I get the picture,” Alex says. He pushes himself forward until he can lean on his knees and let his head hang. “I owe him. You know that.”

There’s a faint beep of a tricorder by his ear that Alex doesn’t bat away. Kyle’s seen an injury, small and insignificant though it might be - and he won’t leave Alex alone until he reassured himself that there’s not a stab wound hiding under Alex’s clothes. “You owe him shit.”

Alex is too damn tired to rehash this argument again. “Kyle-“

“It’s true!”

“You were on board with helping this morning,” he complains, letting Kyle nail him with a hypospray.

“That was until I realized you were planning on using him to fuel your self-flagellation,” Kyle says, “and picking up every STI going, for fucksake did you at least use protec- no, of course you fucking didn’t. Damnit, Alex.”

Okay, line drawn. “I’m asking nicely,” Alex says, making sure to make eye contact. “What happens between two consenting adults isn’t your concern. Michael isn’t on my crew until Evans sends the paperwork.” Which is probably happening as they speak. “And I am allowed to blow off some steam!”

“I am a massive fan of you getting laid,” Kyle says earnestly. “It’s good for the heart. What I object to - what you’d object to if this was playing out the other way - is you letting someone use you because you feel guilty for something you had no control over. What happened to Guerin is not on you. Do you blame him for what happened on Risa?”

Christ, they really are dragging up the past. “Of course not.”

“So…”

“So you’re blowing this out of proportion,” Alex says, finally adding some forcefulness into his voice. “Guerin will be a member of this crew by morning. There’s not going to be a repeat of this ever again, and I need you to not be a dick to him.”

“I’m a doctor, not a toddler,” Kyle glares, “I’m perfectly capable of being professional.”

Alex forces himself to soften. Kyle is being over-protective, nothing more. He forgets sometimes that friends do that for each other. “I’m sorry,” he says. Kyle is his friend, yes, but he’s also the ship’s CMO. He’d never be so petty and childish as to let any concerns he has for Alex and Guerin’s… relationship?… interfere with his duty.

Kyle shakes his head with soft despair. “Go take a shower,” he says, shoving Alex in the arm. “And get some damn sleep. I’ll promise not to give Guerin any unnecessary shots if you turn up to your physical tomorrow. Your blood pressure is still too low for my liking.”

Alex snorts. “Trust me, a week of Michael Guerin in charge of the warp core will fix that right up.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Michael runs his hands down his red shirt, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. He’s been allocated fresh new uniforms for his shiny new position and he feels like he did in his first day at the Academy.

Standing in Alex’s Ready Room, waiting with other members of the Senior crew for their Captain, Michael wants nothing more than to just get to work. He’s been given the tour, he’s been introduced to his department, and he’s stared in misty-eyed wonder at the sheer magnificent beauty of the Enterprise's warp core.

Now he wants to get his hands up her skirt, so to speak.

The door to the room opens and Alex walks in, still in mid-conversation with a woman wearing a Yeoman’s rank on her uniform sleeve. “Send the report,” he says to her, “I’ll follow it up when I have my meeting with him tomorrow.”

“Sir,” she says, taking a file from Alex and leaving the room.

“Thank you for waiting,” Alex says. “Take a seat.” Chairs slide back almost as one. “You’ll have noticed a new addition to the crew - Lieutenant Commander Guerin is taking point as our new Chief Engineer. Guerin comes to us from the _Carpathia_ and has forgotten more about warp physics than the rest of us will ever know.” Alex says the words evenly and without any of his old fondness, but they sink warmly into Michael’s heart regardless.

“Privilege to get to work with you all,” Michael says.

“You already know Commander Evans, my XO,” Alex says, nodding his chin in Max’s direction. Michael can’t help but grin. His reunion with his brother might only’ve been fifteen minutes long, but Max is more than eloquent enough to make each second count. Michael considers himself thoroughly scolded and slightly bruised by the tightness of Max’s embrace. Alex then directs his attention to a welcome surprise, “And Lieutenant Evans, our Communications Officer,” he adds. Isobel’s beaming, beautiful face shines back at him from across the table. The sight of her tugs on something in his chest, something painful and small and goddamnit, he’s _not_ crying at his first briefing.

He swallows. Nods.

“Doctor Liz Ortecho is our Science Officer,” Alex continues, indicating a small, dark-haired woman who is leaning eagerly towards Michael.

“Doctor Ortecho? As in the Doctor Ortecho who developed quadrotriticale? _That_ Doctor Ortecho?” Michael asks, finding himself reflecting her posture. He’s an engineer, sure, but that development is pure artistry.

Liz is practically vibrating in her seat. “And you’re the guy who cracked trans-warp beaming! How did you even come up with those equations? I mean, it goes against every foundation in trans-warp physics, it’s changed everything, and-”

Michael opens his mouth to respond only for Alex to hold up a hand and end the conversation before it can really begin. “You can geek out at each other off duty,” he says, and while Michael knows him well enough to recognize the humor in his eyes, he wonders how many of the others do.

“Captain,” Liz says, blushing but still grinning and sliding back into her seat.

“You’ve met Cameron, our Chief of Security and Quartermaster,” Alex continues. Michael eyes the terrifying blonde woman at the end of the table and flashes her the biggest grin he possibly can. She rolls her eyes. “Do not cross her,” Alex says dryly, “she will break you.”

“I’m very gentle,” Cameron says. Next to her, a man dressed in science blues and sporting what might be the most impressive cheekbones in the quadrant, starts to chuckle.

“It’s true,” he says, “she always delivers her victims to sickbay once she’s done with them.”

“Doctor Valenti is our Chief Medical Officer,” Alex says with a dramatic sigh, “and resident comedian.”

Valenti bows his head.

“Lieutenant Commander Rosa Ortecho is our Chief Navigator-“

“Talk math to me, baby,” Rosa winks. Michael gets the feeling the Ortecho sisters can runs rings around him and he’s never been more excited to let anyone do so.

“Ambassador Maria DeLuca is our emissary from the UFP and advises us on complex diplomatic situations,” Alex says and the woman next to Michael smiles. Alex officially has the most ridiculously pretty crew. How the fuck any of them get anything done…

“I break up the fights,” Maria translates. She’s the only one not in a fleet uniform and a string of colorful beads hang over a yellow tunic dress.

“And finally, our Pilot, Lieutenant Flint Manes.” Nothing in his expression or tone changes, but Flint, Michael can instantly tell, is not a welcome member of the crew. Michael has met two of Alex’s brothers and neither experience has given him much hope for the third. His oldest brother is an outright psychopath.

Flint nods, quiet and serious. Michael is insanely proud of himself for returning the gesture without adding an extended finger.

“You’ll all have time to acquaint yourselves with Lieutenant Commander Guerin properly during the mission, but for now, welcome to the Enterprise, I hope it is everything you expect,” there’s a lump in Michael’s throat as they make eye contact, then Alex looks to the ceiling and sighs before adding, “and please, all of you, keep any hazing rituals to your free time.”

There’s a scattering of mumbled agreements as Alex takes his seat and the briefing session begins.

They go through each department systematically, starting with Communications. It’s fascinating for Michael, who has never been invited to the adult table before, to listen to each person speak. He usually struggles to sit still for any great length of time, but for once he’s too busy paying attention to even twitch.

“I’ve inspected your department myself, Guerin,” Alex says when they come to engineering, “but in future, I’ll expect the same reports from you.”

“Yes, Captain,” Michael nods. This Alex is the Alex he once knew dialed up to a hundred. Michael’d sat on Alex’s Kobayashi Maru back in the Academy - all three of them - he knows how commanding his presence can be, but this… this is calm, confident assurance. He knows exactly what he is doing and has faith that every member of his senior team are as dedicated and intelligent as he is.

It’s… surprisingly inspiring. It’s not like he’s handing out gold stars to anyone who does their job, but there’s pride in his eyes directed at each and every person who reports to him, and Michael can see how much they all crave it. They want him to be impressed, they want that pride, and by the looks of things, they work fucking hard for it.

Christ, Michael wants it. He wants Alex to look at him like that. He wants to be worthy of it.

They move on to discussing Security next.

“Project Artemis is moving along well,” Cameron announces after running through an update of the week’s incidents. “I’ve made a short-list of candidates and sent them to your PAAD.”

Alex taps the screen in front of him and nods. “I’ll have a look over it today,” he promises. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” she says flatly.

“Anything else that isn’t based on assigning me a full-time bodyguard?” Alex continues.

Cameron’s lips pull together in a tight line. “You said you’d think about it.”

“And I have,” Alex says. “It would send the wrong message.”

“Pretty sure your grizzly murder would send a worse one,” Cameron says bluntly.

Michael, who has mostly stayed quiet for the entire meeting, has no choice but to speak up. “Sorry, who wants to murder you?”

“No one,” Alex says, pointedly shaking his head.

“We don’t know yet,” Cameron says directly to Michael. “But I would be remiss in my duty if I didn’t take the threat seriously.” That, she says to Alex, her shoulders set in a stubborn line.

“Threat? What threat?” Michael knows he’s not going to get anything from Alex, so he speaks to Max instead, searching out his most likely ally.

“The Captain has been receiving death threats ever since he took his Commission,” Max says, shooting Alex a look that’s mildly challenging.

“My name has been unusually high profile these last few months,” Alex says dismissively. “It brings fanatics out of the woodwork. It’s nothing unusual, and nothing that warrants anything more than enforcing standard security protocol.”

“But-“ Cameron starts.

Alex shakes his head firmly. “That’s enough. Doctor Ortecho, how are things in your department?”

Liz looks decidedly unhappy with being thrown so bluntly in the deep end, but Cameron falls silent and so she begins her report. Michael’s been looking forward to this one the most, but he can’t bring himself to concentrate.

Someone wants to kill Alex.

Michael can take one damn guess as to who.

__

* * *

 

 

He’s shoulders deep in one of the empty cooling tanks when Alex makes his appearance down in Engineering, three whole shift rotations since the end of their briefing. He tries to climb out and salute, only for Alex to wave him off. “As you were,” he says, clearing Michael to continue his work. He doesn’t. Alex is so close and so painfully beautiful, and Michael wants nothing more than to kiss him.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Captain?” Michael asks. _Distance_ , that’s what he needs. Emotional, since physical distance has made fuck all difference.

“I thought I’d come see how you were settling in,” Alex says. There’s something softer about his voice that’s been missing from their last encounters. In the bar, Alex had come in with an agenda, and in the briefing, he’d been Captain Manes, but now… now he’s something close to the boy Michael once knew better than himself.

Does he have anyone to hold him when the nightmares hit? Does he have anyone to make sure he eats? Is there anyone in the world outside of Michael who knows how very, very fucked up Alex Manes really is?

He hides it well. His career trajectory alone makes that clear. He’s good at putting on a front. He’s good at switching parts of himself on and off like a fucking robot. 

“Did you now?”

“Guerin…” there’s a warning heavy in Alex’s voice. Unlucky for him, Michael’s an engineer - he’s never been one to pay much attention to warning signs.

Swinging his legs over the side of the tank, he hits the walkway next to Alex with a thud of boots on metal. They’re in the middle of Gamma shift, and the bulk of the work being done is two levels down. There’s no one else around.

“You never said your brother was on your crew,” Michael says.

Alex frowns. “He’s _my_ brother. I didn’t think you’d care.”

Of course not. Michael _not caring_ is what fucking started all this in the first place. He can’t help the sneer that crosses his face. Christ, it feels like the last ten years haven’t happened. Alex is still so fucking infuriating. “Right, no, of course not.” And then, because he’s an asshole, he pushes. The galaxy might see their hero as someone justifiably a bit battered around the edges by his experiences, but Michael knows the wounds Alex hid even before and he’s morbidly, viciously curious to know if they’re still there. “They’re worried. About these threats,” he says. “Do they know about him?”

He can see Alex isn’t following. “About Flint? He’s got nothing to do with-“

“No,” Michael says flatly. “About _him_.”

Alex’s eyelashes flutter as he blinks rapidly. He’s not fighting back tears, he’s fighting back panic. Michael hasn’t even said his name, and Alex is practically in pieces.

When he finally recovers himself well enough to speak, he says, “No. And you’re not going to tell them.”

“What if I do? They’re looking for someone with a reason to want you dead. We both know who’s top of that list.” His voice sounds far colder than he means it to. He’s not angry, but he’s frustrated, and he realizes far too late that while _he_ might still be able to read Alex like a book, Alex… Alex isn’t reading Michael’s fierceness as concern, he’s reading it as aggression.

Contrite, he reaches out a hand, knowing that touch has always worked far better than conversation.

He’s not expecting Alex to shove him back against the tank, a palm flat against Michael’s chest and fire burning in the darkness of his gaze. “Then I’ll send you back to the shithole I found you in,” he says, the ice in his voice at complete odds with the rest of his demeanor. “Do you understand?”

Michael’s not stupid. He’s supposed to be a genius.

He knows he’s fucked up. He’s taken the familiarity of their encounter in the bar and the comfort of his command and foolishly overestimated both his place in Alex’s heart and understanding of the past few years.

This Alex isn’t _his_ Alex.

This is the Alex who has risen from the ashes of the fire Michael abandoned him to.

“I understand,” he says, holding his hands up contritely. “Captain.”

The use of his rank jars Alex out of his rage. He stumbles back, horrified. “I- I’m not…” he looks in that second the same frightened boy Michael once found huddled at the bottom of their closet, but then - blink and that boy is gone. “I apologize. That was unprofessional. If you’d like to lodge a complaint with-“

Michael grabs him by the front of the shirt, spins them both around, and slams him back up against the tank Alex had pushed him against. That movement is violent, bruising, but the kiss that follows is anything but. He fans his fingers out across the curve of Alex’s cheeks, holds him gentle and firm, and writes prayers of tenderness and concern with his mouth. Alex is too startled at first, neither returning the kiss or punching Michael in the nose. He does gasp, and Michael takes that chance to gently slip his tongue into his mouth. _That_ triggers a response, and for a perfect moment, Alex is kissing him back, his body pressing forward into Michael’s, every line of him radiating that broken, frantic want that had called out to Michael so many years ago.

And then he moves away. “Guerin,” he says, regretful this time, not a warning.

“I report you, you can report me. Pretty sure there are rules against planting one on you CO.”

The smile that wins him is distressingly soft. “You’re going to make me regret ever picking you up off that bar floor, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to make you regret ever leaving my arms in the first place, Michael promises him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: dubious consent due to magical space flowers and a very brief moment of Kylex. We are in full Trek Space Opera territory now!
> 
> So far, 'never again' hasn't made it past one chapter...

Six weeks of life on the Enterprise teaches Michael a lot.

For one, it teaches him that it is actually possible to exist on coffee, stress, and excitement alone for at least seven days, but that doing so will get you a personalized meal plan from the CMO’s office and a humiliating lecture on ‘being a proper adult’ by the ship’s XO.

It teaches him that being around other scientists is the most wonderful, frustrating, brilliant thing in the fucking world and that Doctor Ortecho might actually be crazier than he is.

It teaches him that serving on the same ship as both his brother and his sister after not seeing either of them for years means there is quite literally nowhere to run when they both decide to commandeer his time.

It teaches him that Jenna Cameron is terrifying and will beat him up if he skips the weekly defense classes she runs, and that Maria DeLuca seems to know what he’s thinking at all times and is, fortunately, too amused to be horrified.

It teaches him that Kyle Valenti is not only an asshole, but an asshole who has the power to take him off duty at any time if he doesn’t clock at least four hours rest a shift cycle.

And it teaches him that even a decade of being in love with Alex Manes doesn’t stop him wanting to throttle him on a damn near daily basis.

It does _not_ teach him patience. Or humility. Or the ability to be zen when Alex beams down to the Planet of the Day and comes back either bleeding, unconscious, bleeding _and_ unconscious, or shirtless.

Shirtless is preferable to bleeding any day of the week, but it ultimately comes down to a pattern of behavior that you don’t need letters after your name to decode. Alex has no sense of self-preservation on a good day, but now… now he’s actively throwing himself into harms way when there is zero fuck all need for him to do so.

Michael is pretty sure he’s the only one who sees it for what it is, though Cameron and Valenti take it in turns to give him the stink eye.

For the most part, Michael picks his battles carefully. Alex is good at avoiding him when he thinks he wants to talk about anything remotely personal.

Michael has to catch him when his guard is down, his attention is diverted, or he’s only halfway conscious.

Today, he waits in the transport bay for Alex to beam back to the ship and then follows him into the lift before he can make an escape.

“I gotta ask, is the shirt optional or something?” he says to break the ice Alex is using as building blocks between them.

“Guerin-“ Alex turns around sharply, slams his hand against the controls of the lift and drags Michael out of it the second it comes to a stop.

It makes sense that Alex needs to change - find a shirt - before heading to the bridge, but it makes significantly _less_ sense for him to be pulling Michael along after him.

Or to propel him through the door to his private room.

“Okay,” Michael says, “right, so, good. Are you ready to talk about shit? Because I am so ready to-“

He’s put a real effort into not staring at his shirtless Captain like a fucking creep, but his lack of attention means he’s missed something damn important.

Alex, who on a good day ranks at the top of Michael’s _Most Beautiful in the Galaxy_ list, is fucking glowing. His skin gleams golden, almost as if the goodness within has been allowed to pour out of him like sunshine. In the bright light of the cabin, he looks like something from a dream, ethereal and tempting. Pure, molten sin.

“Why are you sparkly?” Michael asks dumbly. “Where is your shirt and why are you sparkly?” They're all valid questions and they all, presumably, have some relation as to why Alex then chooses to put his hand down Michael’s pants.

This whole ‘no sleeping with the captain’ thing is going super great.

Alex’s response, silent but somehow more eloquent than his most rousing speech, is to shove his tongue into Michael’s mouth.

Right. Yeah. Who the fuck cares?

Has Alex always been this warm? It's been a while since they've had real skin to skin contact, but Michael remembers the sweet coolness of him, as smooth as silk and just as light. Alex is on fire, burning from the inside with the same supernova brilliance he lights a room with.

It's not enough. It's not close to being enough. He wants, _needs_ , more. He needs to be under Alex’s skin. He needs to know if his blood is as hot as the rest of him.

He wrenches his mouth from under Alex's control, works his way down the straining, glimmering tendons in his neck until he meets that one sweet little spot that makes him whimper. And bites down hard.

Alex likes that, his brain tells him. Likes the pain, likes the shuddering, nerve-shredding intensity. Just not there. Not where people will notice. They won't be able to miss it, and when Alex decides ‘this is never happening again’ they'll still know. That he's Michael's and he always has been.

Has he always been this possessive? Has he always wanted to put marks into fragile skin and broadcast the weakness of his heart into the world?

Yes, probably, but he’s always allowed Alex to set the pace for them.

 _This_ pace is in no way close to resembling _that_ pace.

“Fuck!” Michael shouts, pain racing across his scalp as Alex grabs a fist full of his hair and pulls sharply. He meets Michael’s look of pained disapproval with a smirk that’s going to get fucked right off his face is he’s not careful.

All the reasons that make this a bad, terrible, no good idea go out the airlock at the burning press of Alex's skin against his own, and before Michael has any idea how it’s happened, they’re both naked, both hard, and Alex is still sparkly.

 _Oooooh_. The logical, rational part of his brain has a lightbulb moment and tries to helpfully explain the situation. It gets about as far as ‘biological interference’ before Alex tackles him back onto the bed and Michael decides he doesn’t care about the why or the how, or about anything that isn’t him getting Alex face first on the mattress and fucking him until he screams. The whole damn ship is going to know what he sounds like when he’s squirming on Michael’s cock, pretty and panting and pleading.

That’s the plan, or at least it will be if Alex gets with the program. He’s too busy playing hard to get, and sure, that’s fine, there’s no fun in winning anything if you don’t have to work for it, but-

Alex sinks his teeth into the sensitive skin around his nipple, and Michael howls. “Fuck! Alex!”

Alex doesn’t respond in Federation Trade, he responds in his native language, the language of his home colony. An alarm kicks in. That’s bad, really bad, super really very fucking- “Goddamnit! You pull any harder and it’s going to come off!”

Alex blinks, wide-eyed and coy, and when he smiles there’s blood on his teeth. “Ivenes anas,” he says, but he does stop pinching Michael’s sore nipple.

Michael should know those words. He’s not got the greatest head for languages - not like Isobel or Alex - but he’s mastered a handful, and Alex’s is one of them. He should know them, but-

There are too many fucking pillows on Alex’s bed. There’s too much bed on Alex’s bed - the damn thing is almost twice the size of Michael’s and big enough to get lost in - perks of a Captain’s bars he supposes. He sends the pillows flying, knocks the water glass off the side cabinet, and makes a concerted effort to pin Alex down. It’s like wrestling jello, every time he thinks he’s finally got him trapped, Alex wiggles free. It’s not like he’s trying to make a run for it - he doesn’t leave the bed at any time - but he seems to be taking great pleasure in making Michael work his ass off.

Fine. That’s fine. Michael can play by those rules. He pushes out with his powers and slams Alex down into the mattress. Before Alex gets the chance to recover, Micahel throws his body over his and holds him firm.

Naked wrestling is a hell of a lot more fun than expected. And Michael’s had some pretty exciting daydreams about doing just this. Or, well, something similar at least. A little less bloodshed.

They’re so close their lips almost brush. Alex’s dark eyes are entirely black, pupils blown so wide there’s no space for anything but the cosmos. Michael bites at his jaw, small, teasing nips, the pace his now, the battle won even if the ground hasn’t been conquered.

“Stay,” Michael says firmly, holding Alex down with a hand on his throat. He’s not squeezing, not yet, but Alex still throws his head back and presses into Michael’s grip.

He’s so consumed by the heat rolling off Alex in waves, so overwhelmed by the feel of him, hard and naked beneath him for the first time in so many years, and he fails to hear the sound of the door opening to Alex’s quarters.

“Nope!” A voice says to Michael’s left, right before he’s being hit in the face by ice cold water and knocked sideways off the bed.

He surfaces, spluttering, grasping the edges of the sheets to try and lever himself onto his feet.

Kyle fucking Valenti drops an empty jug onto the bed, which goes a long way in explaining Michael’s impromptu shower.

It does sweet fuck all to explain why Alex, instead of being pissed at the sudden removal of both Michael and the cock that was about to fuck him into next week, gives Valenti the same wicked little smile he gave Michael.

“Hmm,” he says, rolling languidly, his whole body a sonnet to the most wicked, filthy sex, “Kyle…”

“You are going to drive me to retirement, I swear to god,” Valenti mutters, trying to hold Alex down with one hand while fiddling with a hypospray in the other. He might have some success, if not for the way Alex swings his legs around and brings him crashing down onto the bed beside him. He’s got no chance from there, a lap full of naked Alex before he can even sit upright and a squeak of protest muffled by the incessant press of Alex’s mouth.

That’s a bigger shock to the system than the water Valenti threw at him. That, and the fact that Dr. Medical Professional Valenti goes from protesting to enthusiastically participating in the time it takes for Michael to get his balance back.

So. Something’s absolutely wrong. Alex’s back shimmers under the bright lights, muscles rolling under Valenti’s roaming hands, and -

Michael darts forward, snatches the hypospray Valenti was holding and jams it against Alex’s neck.

The effect is almost instant.

Both Alex and Valenti freeze.

Alex, who has his hands in Valenti’s short hair, leans back and blinks in confusion. “Kyle?” He looks down - he’s still super naked and super hard and super in the lap of his CMO.

And there’s no fucking way he and Valenti _haven’t_ fucked. Valenti’s not nearly half as freaked out as he should be, and Alex isn’t climbing the walls.

Michael might be. He’s going to climb every wall in the damn ship if Alex doesn’t put some clothes on right the fuck now. And then maybe come sit on Michael’s-

No. Nope.

Whatever was in the hypospray is damned effective. Michael shakes his head, fighting the unnerving sensation of surfacing after being deep underwater, his ears not yet popped and his lungs straining.

“Guerin?” Alex is still in Valenti’s fucking lap and the universe is a cruel, cruel mistress, but Michael manages an awkward smile and a dumb little wave.

“Hi,” he says, fighting the urge to shuffle his feet.

Alex finally launches himself to his feet. “What the actual fuck?” he demands, which is better than asking ‘ _what the literal fuck_ ’, because that answer will likely get Michael a court martial.

Valenti seems to be responding to the whole thing like it’s nothing all that unusual, and sure, the stories you hear of weird and wonderful shit happening in deep space are… well, weird and wonderful, but there’s got to be a line, surely? “Make friends with the local flora and fauna, did we?” he asks Alex, who is scrambling to put his pants back on.

Scowling, Alex gently touches the shimmering surface of his skin. “I fucking hate flowers,” he says emphatically. He grimaces after a particularly vigorous movement and touches his neck. When his fingers come away bloody, he rounds on Guerin. “Please tell me we didn’t-“ he actually looks upset and for that reason alone, Michael quickly shakes his head. The only thing Michael is upset about is the fact that he’s standing there with an erection while his ex and his ex’s… who the fuck knows… have a discussion about plants.

“Nope. No… stuff. Totally stuff-less,” Michael says. Holy fuck where are his fucking pants? Valenti snorts and Michael makes a mental note to fuck with his freshwater rations. If Valenti wants to be a dick, Valenti will have to get used to sonic showers. “Everything was totally PG-13.”

“In no universe was what I walked in on PG-13,” Valenti says. “A few minutes later and you’d both’ve been fucked. Literally.”

“I am so, so sorry,” Alex says miserably. “I should never have-“

“No, no, fuck, Alex,” any lingering arousal vanishes in a moment, “you were drugged. I should never have-“

“You were _both_ drugged,” Valenti says dryly. “Neither of you are to blame. You will both attend mandatory counseling and you’re both coming to sickbay with me now. You need decontamination showers and I want to run some scans. I’ll get Doctor Ortecho to run some tests on… whatever this is-“ he indicates the gleaming surface of Alex’s skin; it’s already starting to fade, the drug Valenti dosed him with counteracting whatever reaction it had with Alex’s system.

“The High Priestess anointed me with some kind of flower? It was in oil,” Alex says. Michael finally finds his uniform half under the bed.

“Is that how you lost the shirt?” Michael asks. He can’t help it. It’s the fifth time with month Alex has gone on a mission fully dressed and come back either with his shirt in tatters or missing it entirely. Now, Michael has zero complaints on the shirtless Captain front, but a betting pool established itself after the third incident and he’s got good credits riding on the answer.

Alex glares at him, slowly regaining both his equilibrium and his ability to pop the balloon of Michael’s ego with a single glance.

“I know you’re being diplomatic,” Valenti says, herding the both of them out the door and towards the lifts, “but one day you’re going to go into anaphylactic shock and DeLuca is going to have to convince people that your seizing ass is just enacting some obscure human greating ritual.”

“You’ve thought about this way too much,” Alex shakes his head. “I’m sorry for dragging you in as well.” He looks up at Valenti through dark lashes and Michael’s chest suddenly starts to ache.

Valenti laughs and nudges Alex with his shoulder. “Like spit is the worst thing we’ve ever swapped,” he says, winking.

Alex blushes. Actually blushes.

Michael wants to throw himself down the lift-shaft.

“I should get back to my dep-“ he tries and fails to make an escape, unable to be in the same space as either of them.

Valenti’s not a massive fuck up Alex has had to blackmail an admiral to bail out. He’s successful and handsome and everyone likes him, and there’s no pain in Alex’s expression when he smiles back at one of his stupid jokes. Valenti’s Mr Perfect. That’s what Alex deserves, right?

“You’ll get your ass to sickbay, Lieutenant,” Alex says sternly. Then, by small degrees, he softens. “If my presence makes you uncomfortable, I can-“

Michael rolls his eyes. “Permission to speak?”

He can’t stand how soft Alex’s expression suddenly becomes. “Of course.”

“Stop being such a fucking martyr,” Michael says. “Shit happens. No one is to blame. Please, lets never talk about it again.”

Alex blinks. Valenti, Grade A dickfaced asshole fuck that he is, claps his hands together. “You know what, Guerin? I’m starting to like you.”

“Yippee,” Michael says dryly. “Stupid fucking plants,” he adds under his breath.

Valenti opens his mouth.

Alex beats him to it. “Say another damn word, Kyle, and I’ll demote you.”

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Why did we never start dating for real?” Alex asks, trying and failing not to arch into the strong fingers currently pressing firmly against the back of his neck. He’s got a fresh bill of decontaminated health and a brewing tension headache, and Kyle seems to be under the impression that if he leaves Alex alone he’s going to end up crying at the bottom of his bed like some lovelorn hero from a romance holo.

Kyle shifts beneath him, his strong thigh a comfortable pillow for Alex’s head as they sprawl out on his couch “Because our combined hotness would render mere mortals mute?”

“Right,” Alex snorts. He's pretty sure Kyle carries most of the weight in the hotness department. Alex isn't bad looking, but he's hardly on the same scale. Although, sometimes… when Michael looks at him… it’s the closest Alex ever gets to feeling like he might be worth something.

Kyle’s fingers know exactly where to focus in order to reduce him to a boneless puddle of limbs. There’s something very different about being touched by someone who knows you inside out, and someone who knows _the human body_ inside out. Kyle is the one person who fits both bills. “Or maybe it's because we're both hopeless romantics holding a torch for someone we think we can never have.”

“Liz is-“ Alex starts to say. He doesn’t finish. That’s the nature of being on a ship like theirs. You spend almost every minute of every day with the same people, you’re going to get 'complications'. Kyle and Liz had 'complications' long before Max Evan’s broad shoulders arrived on the scene.

“Not in love with me,” Kyle sighs. “It's okay. Well. Not okay. But I've made my peace with it.” Alex knows him well enough to know when he’s lying: he isn’t.

“How?” He can't imagine a time when his heart isn't fractured into pieces that hold glimmers of Michael's smile in their sharp edges.

“I want her to be happy,” Kyle says softly. “More than anything. I wish that meant being with me, but it doesn't. So. _So_.” Alex rolls over so he can look up at Kyle. He's smiling, sad and honest, and in another life, this would be where Alex kisses him.

Kyle is included in his fraternization rule.

But who knows? Maybe one day they'll both settle for being the second choice to the people they love. Alex does love Kyle, and he knows Kyle loves him, and maybe that's all they can hope for.

“I want him to be happy, too,” Alex admits. Once upon a time, Michael’s happiness was a drug for him. He’d twist himself up into any and every shape necessary in the hope of bringing that wide, beaming smile to his beloved face. Alex is an addict, and like any addict, he’s struggling with the new exposure to his craving.

“Guerin isn't Liz,” Kyle says slowly. “He really does love you.” He swaps hands to better reach the back of Alex’s neck and presses firmly on the sore muscle at the juncture of his shoulder. He’s healed up the bite Michael left him with, but the lingering soreness threatens to drag Alex’s head back to unwelcome places.

Michael wants him. Alex understands that. Their relationship has always been explosive, and it’s always been intensely sexual. They exist in the gravitational pull of two black stars, circling, always circling, until they collide with the kind of force that sends shockwaves across the universe. The sex is - was - epic. But it’s not love. If it were love, Alex wouldn’t be in the mess he’s in now. “He doesn't-“

“Alex, _oh Captain, my Captain_ , my very best friend in the universe, how are you this fucking stupid?” Kyle’s back to rolling his eyes and disputing Alex’s intelligence and some stability reestablishes itself in their world. “The guy damn near clawed my eyes out earlier.”

“That was the pollen,” Alex points out. He's still trying to figure out how he's going to write the whole mess up in his Captain’s Log tonight with an Admiral having an aneurysm while reading it.

“The pollen was the reason the two of you decided to maim each other in the middle of a shift. It had nothing to do with the look on his face when he found out you and I have history.”

Alex stops to think about it. There’s no real secret that he and Kyle have a relationship more intimate than most Captain/CMOs, but it's not like they flaunt anything. Isobel likely knows, and Maria. Christine Chapel certainly does. Kyle might be a mother hen when it comes to Alex, but he’s like that with everyone, and Alex is Captain; keeping him in one piece is literally Kyle’s job.

When Alex says nothing, Kyle continues. “You remember Algor Six?”

Alex grimaces. “I wish I didn’t.” It’s only been three weeks, and it seems both a lifetime and a second ago. Kyle might be a medical genius, and the technology available now beyond anything they could’ve imagined a hundred years ago, but no matter how seamlessly wounds can be stitched, the brain still takes a while to catch up. Technically the spear in Alex’s chest had only been there for twenty minutes, but even now Alex finds his fingers searching out the puncture wound, surprised when they find nothing but smooth, unblemished skin.

“I think he was probably the last to find out - pretty sure a bomb could go off under his ass and he’d not notice when he gets into a project.” Alex snorts. He can do one better: he’s jerked off in the same bed as Michael and not received so much as a twitch from the oblivious genius lost in numbers literally laid out next to him. “But he was freaking out when he came by sickbay.”

Alex frowns. “I don’t remember him being there.”

“I’d already released you,” Kyle says. Alex can only sleep in sickbay when he’s sedated. Kyle’s long since given up trying, preferring now to send Alex back to his quarters to recuperate in a safe, private place. “Which was when I got the ‘are you incompetent or just a dick?’ speech from him. Like I said, the guy’s head over heels. I almost like him.”

“He was always protective,” Alex says, time and distance allowing a fondness for something he'd once riled against.

“For good fucking reason, I’d say,” Kyle scoffs. “Were you half as reckless in the Academy as you are now?” Alex looks up, raises an eyebrow. Kyle knows the answer to that one. “Right,” he sighs. “ Seriously though. You’re not a kid anymore. Throwing yourself into danger every chance you get has far bigger consequences now. The crew-”

“I would _never_ endanger the crew,” Alex says, more plaintive than angry. “I'd die first.”

Kyle shakes his head, recalling the same gestures, the same expressions, as he does every time they have this conversation. “Yeah, that's the problem. You have got to start delegating. You can’t be everywhere and do everything and expect to pull that shit off indefinitely. You’re human, Alex. Respect your biological limitations, or you’re going to start fucking things up. Besides… as much as Max Evans having a heart attack and keeling over would clear the path for me and Liz, none of us want to have to house train another XO.”

“He really does have the biggest stick up his ass,” Alex shakes his head, unable to stop the snort of amusement that escapes him.

“Yeah,” Kyle raises his eyebrows, “it’s called ‘my boss is borderline suicidal and I have no idea how I am going to explain his untimely death to the Admiralty’.”

Alex flushes with shame. Is that what they both think of him? Is that what the _crew_ think of him? “I’m not-“

Kyle’s hand moves from his neck to curl gently over the back of his head. “I know,” he says kindly. “And you know I trust you, right? I’ll follow you to the ends of the galaxy and back.”

“We’re friends,” Alex points out. “That’s what friends do.”

“We are,” Kyle agrees, “and you’re my Captain. Just… you’re not in this alone, okay?”

“If this is your way of telling me I need to talk to Michael-“

Kyle rolls his eyes and gently shoves Alex’s shoulder until they’re both settled more comfortably on the couch. “I’m a doctor, Manes, not a couples counselor.”

 

* * *

 

 

Michael is, for once, in his quarters when Alex finally works up the courage to speak to him. Usually, the Chief Engineer shares quarters with the Head of Security, an outdated protocol Alex has already given the Brass hell about. They’ve found the extra space, and now all his Heads of Departments have their own quarters. The weight of the ship rests on their shoulders; they should at least have somewhere they can go for solitude.

It means that when Michael grants him entrance, he’s standing there wearing only low slung pants that barely manage to cling to the sharp indent of his hips. One move too vigorous and they’ll be on the floor. They just about tick the box of preserving his modesty, which is the only saving grace to be found because he’s wearing absolutely nothing else.

“Captain,” Michael says, rising from behind a desk covered in mechanical parts. Alex waves off the formalities and watches the ramrod straightness ease from Michael’s shoulders. It’s fascinating to see how different he and Max react to things. Max craves the rules and regulations, he finds stability and reassurance in the certain. Michael tolerates them for the purpose of adventure and discovery. “So, what brings you to my humble abode?”

Alex swallows. He’s standing at parade rest because he has no idea how else to stand. “You said you wanted to talk. Before-“

“Before we got roofied by a flower?”

Alex pulls a face, mortification crawling up his neck just at the thought of it. If they’d not been interrupted, if they’d gone through with…. he’d never be able to forgive himself. “Yes,” he says faintly.

Michael casually uses his powers to unearth a chair from under a pile of blueprints. He’s always been terribly chaotic in his living space, something that used to drive Alex insane when they were roommates. “Here was me thinking you’d avoid me for another six weeks.”

“I did not-“ Alex clamps down on the protest. He’s not a damn teenager. He doesn’t hide, and he doesn’t have to justify his actions to anyone, let alone Michael. “I was busy. In case you hadn’t noticed, this ship never sleeps.”

He’s surprised when Michael just huffs, a small laugh transforming his face into something young and carefree. “Yeah, no shit. Don’t get me wrong, this is the best gig in the world, but I’m literally putting out fires twenty-four seven. Actual fires, in some cases.”

Despite Michael’s insistence that Alex is ignoring him, they still have weekly briefing sessions one on one, and with the other senior crew, and Alex gets a daily report of all incidents. He follows up on all of them with a memo, if not a departmental visit.

“You love it,” he says.

Michael grins, wide and bright. “Fuck yeah I do. I-“ he shifts on his feet, suddenly contrite. “I haven’t really thanked you. For all of this.” He looks up, the weight of his gaze adorned with history. Alex has always been helpless against those star-bright eyes.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” Alex shakes his head.

Michael bounces on his heels, barely perceptible, and painfully endearing. “I know things didn’t end well between us,” he says, his shoulders slumping. “I said some things. I was - I was cruel.”

“We both were,” Alex can’t let him carry the burden of those last, fraught months. They both hurt each other in ways you can only hurt someone you’ve loved. “It wasn’t your fault. There were…extenuating circumstances.” Too many of them, and too many people invested in an outcome that had no space for Michael.

The small, twisted little smile Michael makes is pained. “I was pissed at you for so long.”

Alex knows. He can guarantee he hated himself far more than Michael ever could. “What changed?”

“You saved the damn galaxy,” Michael snorts. Alex can’t help the flinch that rocks through him. He can’t help the way his body softens like mercury when Michael’s arms wrap around him, either. “I watched the news feeds, I saw what we lost. So many people, and all I could think was _‘please let him be okay_ ’. Then you were right there and no matter how mad I was, all that mattered was how long it’d been since I kissed you.”

“And now?” He can’t look away, can’t blink. If he does either, he’s going to give in to that foolish, weak part of his heart that only feels whole when his world is on fire with Michael’s touch.

Michael’s hand comes up to brush across Alex’s cheek. He follows, seeking and craving that heat. “Now I can’t even remember why I was angry.” Alex catches his wrist and presses a featherlight kiss to the inside of his palm. “Now I can see the shadows in your eyes and I can’t help but wonder if they’d still be there if I’d gone after you.”

“They’d never have let you,” Alex whispers, pushing away the thought of Michael being anywhere near- “You know they’d never-” He stops and shudders. “Fuck, Michael. What are we doing? We can’t-“

He’s never been able to think when Michael kisses him. That’s not changed. It never will. He’s seventeen again, hopeful for the first time in his life, alive in the presence of someone who has seen and suffered and shone like a beacon in the darkness. Michael is an inferno, battling the blizzard Alex has spent his entire life trapped in. By their very nature, they are opposites, as likely to destroy one another as they are to find harmony. Oh, but Alex has always welcomed the end if it is to come at Michael’s hands.

“I told you,” Michael says, his breath short and sharp and blisteringly hot as he rests his forehead against Alex’s. “They don’t get to keep you. Starfleet might have you now, but I’ll take you back. Every damn day if I have to. Just say you’ll let me. Let me in, Alex.”

Here is his point of no return. He’s got one foot across the line already, off balance and tumbling forward. No matter where he goes from here, he’s fucked. Wholly and completely. The only question is, does he let Michael catch him when he falls?

“Ask me again,” Alex pleads.

Michael doesn’t hesitate. “Let me in. Please, please let me in.”

Alex reaches up, wraps his arms around Michael’s next, and detonates the last of his defenses.

The walls come tumbling down.

There is no turning back.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trek Fans: I am so sorry *hides*  
> Non-Trek Fans: I'm not sorry, but I will in a few chapters time :D

Suddenly things are different, and yet somehow, entirely the same. They’re both workaholics with jobs that require almost twenty-four hour attention to detail and both have issues with delegation. Thousands of lives depend on their experience, expertise and the choices they make, so there’s no sudden rush into the same whirlwind intensity from the Academy.

They don’t come home to one another. They don’t fall asleep in each other’s beds every night or sneak out at three am for ice cream in one of San Fransisco’s many all hour cafes. They don’t casually slide into each other’s arms, hold hands under the table in the mess hall, or make out like teenagers in the library.

What they do is play chess.

And fuck. When they’re not sleep deprived, pre-occupied or on separate shift patterns, they fuck a lot. Nothing much has changed on that front.

But when they’re in public, when they’re lounging in the Senior Rates Mess, or when Alex has been coaxed into the lounge, they play chess.

Michael’s missed the sex. He has. No one makes him feel the way Alex does when they’re lost in each other’s bodies, the outside world a distant concept and their bodies perfectly in sync.

But - and he will happily arrange the ‘accidental’ death of anyone who dares suggest it - he thinks he’s missed playing chess with Alex even more.

No one plays chess like Alex plays chess. Michael’s whole world is math. It’s beautiful, logical, chaotic and infinite, and it sings to him the songs of the universe. It makes him a mean chess player. One who, up until Alex, had never once lost a match.

Then in came this silent, morose, angry, _frightened_ teenage boy who screamed their dorm down every night, and who looked at the world with eyes that expected violence and fucking dared you to deliver it.

Michael’s no stranger to nightmares, and he’s even less of a stranger to the cause of them, so even now, whenever Alex wakes up sobbing, he doesn’t bother with platitudes or concern; he breaks out the chess board.

A game or two is usually all it takes to calm Alex down.

It does exactly the opposite for Michael, who remembers all too well that while chess might’ve been one of the first things they bonded over as teenagers, it was also the thing that led directly to them having sex for the first time.

There are only so many times Alex can give you that filthy little ‘ _didn’t see that coming, did you?_ ’ smirk before Michael loses the ability to be objective about shit.

By this point, he is pretty sure Alex is doing it on purpose. Chess stops being saved for those fractured, trauma-filled twilight hours. It becomes foreplay. Then it becomes a tradition. Then it just becomes them. Now they play in public.

Alex is an infuriating player. Completely, utterly, one hundred percent asking to be bent over the back of his chair and fucked stupid _infuriating_.

Entirely brilliant. But yeah. How Michael has managed not to embarrass himself in public is a mystery for the ages.

The best nights, in Michael’s opinion - and they’re not always night, sometimes they are stupid o’fucking-clock in the morning after Gamma - are nights where he gets both - chess and sex. Maybe his two favorite things in existence, when Alex is the second party.

The problem, Michael has learned, is that both playing chess with the Captain, and fucking the Captain, are endeavors to which he enjoys putting more than ten minutes of his time. He’s lost count of the number of people who comm Alex when he’s off shift, each likely thinking that their request, concern or stupidity is the one exception to the ‘ _even the boss has to fucking chill out_ ’ rule.

Michael hates it. If he’s going to beat Alex then it has to be because he’s outwitted him, not because Alex is thinking about ten other things and holding five different conversations.

And it’s really fucking awkward when someone comms them when they’re having sex.

Case in point: he currently has both of Alex’s wrists in his hands, his upper body weight holding them firmly against the pillows and his dick slowly fucking into Alex’s soft, pliant mouth. It’s a position that’s been a favorite of theirs since the Academy, one guaranteed to drag Alex out of his head and force him into the present. He doesn’t have to think, he doesn’t have to do anything, and he doesn’t get the chance to spiral into age-old cycles of shame and guilt.

All Michael has to do is give him what he needs. That’s all Michael ever wants. However they do things, Michael just wants to be whatever Alex needs.

Right now what he needs is for someone to shove a boot up Max’s ass.

Alex’s comm buzzes right as Michael’s dick slides into his throat, and they both freeze. Alex, who up until this point has had his eyes closed blissfully, snaps into focus.

Michael lifts back up, pushing onto his heels. He doesn’t let go of Alex’s wrists.

“I gotta-“ Alex says, working his jaw. They’ve been at this a while, and his voice sounds as fucked as his pretty pink mouth looks. He’s not got to be back on duty for a whole ten hours, and people need to _fuck the hell off_.

There’s no claxon demanding his urgent attention, but it’s still Max. Alex is never going to ignore a call from his XO, not when there’s the chance it’s important.

Knowing Max, it’s equally likely that he’s just being pedantic about something. It’s usually fifty/fifty.

“Do you trust me?” Michael asks, knowing damn well that Alex has every right to dump him on his ass for even considering what he’s about to do.

Alex blinks up at him, the sharp edge of crystal tears clinging to his lashes as he weighs up the pros and cons.

Then he nods, ever so cautiously.

Michael beams at him, then accepts the call. “Commander Evans,” he says cheerfully, “what can I do for you?”

“ _Guerin_?” Even on comms, Max is such a damn stickler for the rules. “ _Are you with the Captain?”_

“Define with?” Michael says, trying not to laugh when Alex rolls his eyes.

 _“Is he in your presence?_ ” Max says with a put upon sigh.

“He’s sleeping,” Michael says.

“ _What_?”

“Sleep. That thing you do when you’re not awake. That thing Valenti rants about until he’s purple and foaming at the mouth. I can wake him up if you like?”

Alex’s tongue absently darts out and runs over his bottom lip.

“ _No! No, if he’s sleeping - that’s good. It's not urgent. I’ll send a message to his station, he can pick it up later._ ” Max says nothing about Michael being in Alex’s cabin, but then he knows the two of them used to room together. He doesn’t know they fucked, or dated, that Michael betrayed Alex to the literal monster in the dark, or that Alex’s retaliation essentially cost Michael the last ten years of his career, but that shit is kinda need to know.

“Great,” Michael says brightly. “I’m gonna go before we disturb-“

“ _Yeah. I’m glad that he, that you-_ “ for someone so damn eloquent, Max is fucking hopeless when it comes to having anything close to a coherent personal conversation with Michael. “ _I’m glad you guys are friends again. You both need that._ ”

Beneath him, Alex’s expression is heartbreakingly soft. _‘Me too_ ’, he mouths. Michael bends awkwardly and kisses his forehead.

“Thanks, Max,” Michael says.

“ _It’s Commander Evans,_ ” Max says with a smile in his voice.

“Yeah yeah,” Michael says, then ends the call.

“He’s a good guy, your brother,” Alex says softly. “He’s a pain in the ass as an XO, but-“

Michael sees an opportunity and takes it. Alex opens his mouth to finish his sentence, and Michael slides in firmly until his dick brushes the back of his throat and they're exactly where they left off.

“We are not talking about Max right now,” Michael says sternly. “Understood?”

Alex, his wrists trapped in Michael’s grip, still manages to flip him the bird.

 

* * *

 

 

Engineering isn't always the first department to be alerted to an emergency. In a firefight, it's often hard to miss the action when claxons and alerts start screaming the moment they engage, but if there are no direct systems issues, Michael might not hear about the happenings above decks until the issues are long resolved.

Michael is fine with that. It's his job to keep this beauty in the black. Outside those parameters, he's on a need to know basis.

Granted, his idea of ‘need to know’ and Alex’s differ wildly.

For example, he _needs_ to know about Max getting turned into a kitten in enough time to gather blackmail materials. Four hours after, while his brother is spitting hairballs in sickbay, is of Fuck all use to him.

He says so to Alex. He says so to Alex on the Bridge. Alex gives him a five-minute lecture on professionalism, personal boundaries and ‘creating supportive working environments for our peers’, then emails him a video of Max trying and failing to jump from one terminal to another.

Michael ‘accidentally’ broadcasts it shipwide.

Everyone knows it came from Alex, but no one can prove it, and slowly the crew starts looking at their Captain and XO with affection as well as respect.

Another thing that changes is Valenti. Or rather, Michael is now the first person Valenti alerts if Alex is injured on duty. He stops finding out about his hurts hours and even days later and starts being summoned in time to hold Alex’s hand when he wakes up.

"They've been friends for a decade," Valenti barks at the one and only Ensign dumb enough to comment on it. "Unless you want to sit by the Captain’s side until he wakes up, I suggest you can it."

Alex is famously bad-tempered after a stay in sickbay. The Ensign runs a mile. If anyone thinks there is anything more between Michael and Alex’s relationship, the rumours have yet to reach him.

They must be out there, though, if not widely circulated.

That, or Flint Manes is as smart as the rest of his brothers.

Who the fuck knows what that family? Alex and Admiral Manes are brilliant, if on completely opposite ends of the morality spectrum, and _H_ _e_ is one of the most terrifyingly smart people Michael has ever encountered. Flint’s probably somewhere up there.

Whose side he’s on, Michael has yet to figure out.

So he’s wary, understandably so, when Flint comes skidding into Engineering eight weeks after Michael and Alex have started to rekindle their relationship and four hours after they’ve stopped to pick up a group of diplomatic passengers they are transporting to Alpha Centurie.

“You need to stop him,” Flint forgoes any kind of salute or introduction, skidding to a stop three feet from Michael and ignoring the four Ensigns he’s half way in the middle of lecturing about coolant temperatures.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Michael says. He’s not spoken to Flint at all since coming aboard, and he supposes this conversation is long overdue. “Stop who?”

“Alex!”

That causes a stir in the Ensigns. Michael’s gaze darts to them warily before he looks back at Flint. “Dismissed,” he barks to the small cluster of junior officers. “And keep your damn mouths shut or I’ll put you on Jefferies for six months.”

They snap their heels and scatter, and who the fuck knows if they respect him enough to keep quiet. Closing the gap between him and Flint, Michael hisses, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Flint, surprisingly, just looks upset, and something in his expression, in the gleam of his eyes, is too close to Alex for Michael's liking. “He’s _here_. On the ship. Alex is going to kill him!”

“Who? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Our brother!” Flint shouts. “ _Kodos_.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: dissociation and depersonalization, mentions of genocide and a whole assortment of implied child abuse.

Michael arrives at the San Fransisco campus of Starfleet Academy three days before his seventeenth birthday. All he brings with him are the clothes on his back, the PAAD he won in a competition three years prior and the burning, desperate need to find a place for himself.

He thinks he's on his way. His test scores are in the 99th percentile and his letter of recommendation is signed by Admiral Jesse Manes himself. The Admiral has been good to him over the years, but he's always been clear that Michael needs to earn his place at the Academy.

Now he has.

“I'm proud of you, son,” the Admiral says, a rare warmth in his blue eyes as he surveys Michael from across the wide expanse of his desk. Manes is Commandant of Cadets, serving four years dirtside before the commission of the fleet’s flagship. He's already hinted that there might be a place for Michael in his crew. _If_ he graduates top of his class.

“Thank you, sir,” Michael manages not to mumble. No one has ever said those words to him before and any memory of another man who might've called him ‘son’ is locked away in a box with the other memories of his early life. The Admiral isn't his father, they've only actually met a handful of times over the years, but Michael still remembers being small and starving and scared, looking up into the eyes of the Fleet officer who carried him from the slums of a refugee camp and placing him in the comfort and safety of a medical clinic.

Jesse Manes isn't his father, but a large part of Michael wishes he were.

They talk about his classes and the expectations Manes has for him. Michael nods along earnestly; ready, willing and eager to prove how good he can be. It’s one thing for the Admiral to read his reports and review his grades, but they’re going to be seeing each other face to face at least once a month for all of Michael’s Fleet education.

“I have something I need you to do for me, Michael,” Manes says. “Something I’m not sure I can trust to anyone else.”

“ _Anything_ ,” Michael says fervently.

Manes turns the screen of his computer station around so Michael can see it. It’s displaying a picture of a boy Michael’s age, one with dark, distrusting eyes and a stubborn, angry set to his jaw.

“This is my son, Alex.”

 

* * *

 

There are rules on a ship. Lots of rules. Somewhere between ‘ _don’t use the Jefferies tubes to make scotch, Guerin_ ’, and ‘ _it’s only broken if you file the paperwork, Captain_ ’ is ‘ _don’t fucking run unless it’s an emergency_ ’. Senior crew members running anywhere spreads panic. Michael’s mastered the art of sprint walking. He doesn’t fucking bother with it now.

Flint’s on his heel and he races through the ship towards the lifts.

“Talk,” he barks, jamming his thumb onto the access pad. He’s already used the ship’s computer to locate Alex and he might as well be galaxies away. “Did you report him to Cameron?”

“And say what?” Flint demands. “The genocidal maniac also known as Kodos the Executioner is actually your Captain’s oldest brother and is currently on the ship as we speak?”

Michael stares at him. “Yeah! Yeah, that’s a great fucking place to start!” That at least answers that question: Flint is officially the dumbest Manes brother. “Goddamnit, remind me to reprogram these fucking lifts.” He’s used an emergency override, so they won’t stop on other levels to pick up more passengers, but it’s taking too fucking long.

“Kodos is supposed to be dead, remember?”

“That’s the story,” Michael agrees through clenched teeth. The reign of terror Kodos led on the small colony planet of Tarsus IV was brought to an end fourteen years ago when Alex Manes, barely thirteen fucking years old, stabbed the dictator in the throat. There aren’t all that many survivors of the Tarsus Massacre - even less who are still sane enough to talk about it - but the deed was done in front of witnesses. Hell, apparently there’s even surveillance footage. So yeah, Kodos is supposedly very, _very_ dead. It’s not stopped Alex waking damn near every night in the grip of terror, convinced he’s in the room, watching him. “What makes you think different?”

Michael knows for a fact that Kodos isn’t dead, but he and Alex are supposed to be the only ones who do.

“We just picked up a group of actors. We’re taking them to Rigel 7 for the presidential inauguration.”

“Actors,” Michael echoes. “You’re kidding.”

“One of them, says his name is Anton Karidian, he’s my brother. I knew it the second I saw him, and the way he looked at me…” he trails off, his gaze haunted. Michael’s never understood why Alex was on Tarsus and Flint never was, and for the first time he doesn’t have the heart to want to ask.

“Did Alex see him?”

Flint shakes his head. “No. He’s off duty. But the second he does? He’s gonna kill him.”

“Again?” Michael asks with a bitter, mocking smirk. “If that bastard _is_ Kodos, I say we fucking let him. Justifiable homicide all the fucking way.”

Flint’s expression turns ugly. “You never saw him after we got him back,” he snarls. “ _You_ never held your baby brother’s broken, bleeding body while he sobbed for the man who did that to him. Kodos _broke_ Alex back then. He fucking shattered him. You think I want him to go through all that again? You think I want him anywhere near Alex?”

No, Michael didn’t meet Alex until years had calcified that trauma into his bones, but he knows a thing or two about the damage Kodos did.

The lift stops and throws them out at the Observation deck. Any hope of finding Alex alone vanishes the second Michael lays eyes on him.

He’s stood next to DeLuca, his face slack and expressionless. Seven civilians, ranging from a young girl all the way to an elderly woman all stand around him, dressed in smart black tunics, silver masks embroiled on their backs.

“Him,” Flint says, pointing at the man standing directly in front of Alex. 

Yeah. That’s fucking him. Karidian.  _Kodos_. 

Karidian reaches out and takes Alex’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Captain. I’ve heard so very much about you.”

Michael’s going to fucking kill him. 

Alex doesn’t respond. He’s not moving. He’s not even breathing.

Besides him, DeLuca’s eyes narrow to slits. “Please, let me show you to your quarters,” she says, holding out an expectant arm to direct the small group away from Alex. She twists her torso and plants her feet quarry apart and Michael can read body language the same way she can read emotions. Whatever she’s picked up from Alex has her firmly on the defensive.

Karidian starts to speak. Michael throws himself forward like the proverbial bull in a china shop Alex so frequently accuses him of being, and shouts, “Hey Boss, I think I set something on fire I shouldn’t have.”

Alex _still_ doesn’t fucking blink.

Okay. Okay. That’s not good. That’s so far beyond good that _fucking terrible_ doesn’t really do it justice, but Michael can handle it. He just needs to get Alex someplace quiet, someplace safe.

Flint thinks Alex tried to kill Kodos once before. He thinks he’ll try again.

Michael knows better. Michael, unlike Flint, knows the truth of what happened that day.

Alex isn’t going to do a damn thing. Alex _can’t_ do a damn thing. 

“I’ll come with you, Ma’am,” Flint moves forwards and joins DeLuca, a small nod thrown in Michael’s direction.

Karidian doesn’t miss a beat, though he locks eyes with Flint and _something_ passes between them. “That’s too kind of you, thank you. Captain Manes,” he inclines his head in a brazen gesture of respect, “thank you for your hospitality. Hopefully, we shall see each other again soon.”

Michael thinks he hears himself snarl.

The group of actors follow DeLuca and Flint from the room.

Michael explodes into action.

He knows from experience that there’s no point wasting time trying to talk Alex out of the dark place he’s locked himself, at least not until they’re somewhere safe. This is actually the easiest part. When he's like this, Alex is extremely suggestible.

Michael takes his hand and tries not to grimace at the ice cold stiffness of his fingers.

“Guerin to sickbay,” Michael hits his comm.

“ _Sickbay here_ ,” Christine Chapel’s clear southern belle voice responds in seconds.

“Valenti on duty?” Michael asks, gently leading Alex towards the lift.

“ _Yes, sir_ ,” Chapel says.

“Tell him to meet me at the Captain’s quarters.”

The glorious thing about Chapel is her ability to sail through the weird, wonderful and downright fucking batshit shenanigans they encounter without batting so much as an eyelash. “ _I’ll send him now, sickbay out._ ”

That’s the good thing about having some power, Michael thinks. After Alex, Max and Valenti, Michael’s the next highest ranking officer on the ship. People tend not to ask him too many questions.

Alex’s hand is loose in his own. He follows, biddable in a way he never is, and half the reason Michael doesn’t say anything is that while he’s never figured out just how much awareness Alex has when he’s like this, he knows from frightening first hand experience how fucking literal he takes the things he _does_ hear.

Think it’s bad when your traumatized boyfriend starts whispering frantically to himself in a language you don't understand? Try being a callous, foolish fucking _moron_ and insisting he stop, and then not getting a fucking word out of him for the best part of three days.

You can’t force him out of this head space. Michael’s tried. Fuck, even a Jesse Manes backhand doesn’t get much more out of him than a slow, lethargic blink. Manes has found very few situations he can’t fix with violence, but this is absolutely one of them.

Once inside the lift, Michael makes another call over his comm. “Guerin to Bridge.”

“ _Evans here_ ,” Max responds with the same speed an efficiency Chapel did.

“Private line,” Michael says immediately. There’s a moment of silence, and then-

“ _What’s wrong?_ ”

He delivers the same instructions to Max as he has relayed to Valenti. As much as he wants to keep this private, Alex sacrificed that luxury when he took his commission. Max will need to assume temporary command, and Valenti will need to clear him before he’s allowed back on duty.

When he comes out of his fugue state, Alex will be mortified.

And then they’ll need to deal with Karidian. Which means revealing Alex’s connection to Kodos. That in itself brings a whole host of other issues, namely that Michael is the only person outside the Manes family who even knows their connection to Kodos. He can't imagine the Admiral being thrilled at the idea of that knowledge pool expanding.

For once, Jesse Manes might be an ally. He’s had a long and distinguished career of his own, and he’s been riding off the back of Alex’s very public success. He’s not about to risk that stability and leverage by letting the world know his eldest son orchestrated a genocide.

Better the devil you know, right?

Thankfully, there’s no one in the corridor when the lift stops. Everyone is either on duty or sleeping and that works for Michael, who steers Alex into his quarters and quickly gets him settled on the couch.

Valenti enters only a minute later, while Michael is unfastening Alex’s boots and easing his legs up to lay him down more comfortably.

“What the-“ that’s as far as Valenti gets. Michael’ll say this for him: he’s a giant pain in the ass, but he’s a fucking good doctor. He knees in front of the couch and takes Alex’s pulse before pulling out his tricorder. “How long has he been like this?”

Michael knows from experience that it’s important to be as accurate as possible with questions like this. “Five minutes. No longer.”

Valenti nods, then focuses all his attention on Alex.

Michael rocks back on his heels and puts some distance between them, waiting for Max. It’s surprising how easy it is to fall back into the careful calmness he once knew so well. There’ll be an explosion of emotion later, when he’s alone and Alex is resting, but until then he is perfectly in control of himself.

This is a lot better. Back at the Academy, they didn’t have a doctor on hand, and Michael only ever made the mistake of going to Jesse Manes once. For the most part, he and Alex muddled through on trial and error. So long as Alex came round with Michael close by, things never got too bad.

When Max arrives, it doesn’t take long to get him up to speed.

“There’s no mention of any kind of metal health issues in his file,” Max says urgently, his voice pitched low so only Michael can hear. “He’s captain of the goddamn flagship, how the hell is this not in his medical jacket?”

“You’d have to have a diagnosis for that,” Michael points out.

“You’re telling me he made it thought four years of Academy shrinks, the Officer’s selection panel and his Captaincy exams and no one flagged the fact that he dissociates?”

When Max puts it like that - “He has very specific triggers, okay?” Michael tries to justify it. “And trust me when I say that the Brass have a vested interest in all this being kept quiet.”

“Why? So Admiral Manes can have his war hero son as captain of the Federation’s shiniest new ship? It’s not like Alex is his only option.”

Michael can’t help the bitter bark of laughter that breaks free from his throat. “You say that,” he chuckles darkly, “but just-“

“If he’s not fit for command-“

“He _is_!” Michael hisses. His shoulders square and his hackles rise, ready meet Max toe to toe if he even hints that this makes Alex incapable of doing his job.

Even though, medically speaking, it really fucking should.

“Then what-“

“What would you do, if you came face to face with the man who burned our city to the ground? The one who dragged Isobel out of your house by her hair while she cried and your mom begged.” It’s a low blow, it’s _designed_ to be, but even as Max goes white and furious, Michael can’t regret it. Max’s heart is always in the right place, but he can get distracted by the details sometimes. He takes his position seriously, and that’s a good thing, but Alex is more than their Captain.

“There’s nothing in his file,” Max says again, noticeably softer, almost pleading.

Michael scoffs. “There is,” he says, “it’s just way above your pay grade. We just picked up a group of passengers. You need to make sure they’re confined to quarters until he’s back on his feet.”

“They’re Federation guests, Michael, I can’t-“

“One of them is Kodos the Executioner. He's in disguise, but it's him. I can vouch for it, and so can Flint Manes.” Fuck dancing around the issue. Max isn’t going to take it seriously unless he understands the danger they’re all in. Michael’s not fucking around with Alex’s safety purely to spare his feelings. Shit’s going to come out, regardless. Protecting him has to come first.

He doesn’t have to say more than that. There’s not a fucking soul in the quadrant who doesn’t know that name. Or what it means.

The frustration and hospitality strip themselves from Max’s expression. “He survived the Tarsus IV Massacre?”

“Barely,” Michael says, his teeth bared.

 _Alex_ , he reminds himself. Calm. Focus. He needs to protect Alex first. Comfort him, calm him. He needs to do all the things he got so very, very good at back in the Academy.

When all that’s done, then and _only_ then, can he allow space in his head for anything else.

Then, he can put into motion a plan he’s had laid out in vivid detail ever since he learned the truth.

Kodos might be on record as having committed some of the most horrific acts of violence and cruelty of their lifetime, but Michael grew up in the refugee camps of Antar: he knows a thing or two about cruelty.

 


	8. Chapter 8

At twenty, Alex has no doubt that he’s in love with Michael Guerin.

The light of his day rises and sets with the warmth of Michael’s smile. There’s nothing Alex wouldn’t do just to coax it out from behind studious concentration.

Knowing he’s going to wake up to it is the one reason Alex can think of that makes surviving the night worth it.

It makes mornings like this - where he’s heavy and sore and dehydration compounds a stress headache to leave him feeling miserable and lethargic - worth the effort of trying to move past it.

Michael has him tucked in the curve of his arms, his unruly curls a ticklish, soft warmth against Alex’s cheek. “Same dream?” He asks every time. Alex’s answer has rarely deviated.

“He was right there,” Alex says, daring to open his eyes and let them flick down to the empty place at the foot of their bed. Michael’s bed, technically. If Michael doesn’t put him in it, then Alex crawls in with him. Michael’s an even lighter sleeper than Alex is - a hangover from a childhood spent dodging bandists and murderers. He always opens his arms and he never sends Alex away.

Warm fingers run through his hair, firm, soothing pressure working carefully to undo the pain tension in his body always causes. “You know I’ll kill him before I let him touch you,” Michael says. He never tells Alex that he’s imagining things. He never tries to point out the ways in which it is impossible for his brother to be here. He merely reminds him, calm and certain, what he will do given half the chance.

Alex doesn’t doubt him. He doesn’t doubt Michael’s commitment to do what he couldn’t. If anyone could, it’s Michael. He is a ribbon of gentle compassion wrapped around a core of dilithium. He’s pure, explosive power kept in check by kindness. Alex is always safe when he’s with Michael.

“I’m so tired of always being afraid,” he admits. It’s exhausting to live through and it must be equally as taxing for Michael to live with. “Everywhere I look, he’s there.”

Michael kisses his forehead and holds him tighter. “So am I,” he reminds Alex.

 

* * *

 

  
“You don’t have to do this.”

Walking side by side, Michael’s knuckles brush against his own with every step they take. Alex can feel the need radiating from him: he wants to hold Alex’s hand. Frankly, Alex wants that, too. Michael’s had extremely rough, coarse fingers for as long as Alex has known him, but they’re always so very tender when entwined with his own.

He doesn’t give in to his want. Even if there wasn’t the matter of professionalism to contend with, he’s had to live without Michael’s protectiveness for years. He can’t afford to go to pieces just because the safety net he was once so accustomed to now stands ready and willing to jump right back into place. He'll never survive a second loss.

“I do,” Alex says. “They deserve to know.”

Michael shakes his head in firm vehemence. “No. They don’t. You don’t owe anyone a damn thing.”

“They should have all the facts.” It’s easy to be rational about this. To hide behind a wall of protocol and duty. “Before they decide if they should report me.”

Michael makes a choked sound of disgust. “For what? The Brass already fucking know. What the fuck are they gonna care if some random Ensign’s got a problem with you?”

The official line, the one Alex has been spoon fed since he woke up in sickbay on the Carpathia, seven weeks after a crew had found him starved and beaten and chained up like an animal, is to deny. Deny everything. Deny his presence on Tarsus IV. Fuck, deny he’s ever heard of the colony, let alone been there. Deny his enrollment at the elite satellite training academy that isn’t supposed to exist. Above all, deny any and all connection to the man on record as Governor Kodos.

Kodos. Not his real name, of course. A code name given to him by his Section 31 handlers. Alex prefers it to the real thing. If he thinks of the man - the monster - as Kodos the Executioner, he doesn’t have to think of him as the man who once tucked him into bed and would read him stories when he was sick.

“How can I expect their loyalty when I’ve never been honest with them?”

“There’s not a damn soul on this fucking tin can who wouldn’t crawl over hot coals for you, asshole,” Michael snaps at him, nerves visibly frayed.

The words leave Alex’s mouth before he has the chance to contain them. “Even you?” He sees them hit Michael where he’s most vulnerable, sees the fracture of pain that blossoms outwards from his heart, spiderweb hurts like broken shards of glass.

“You would’ve never asked me that before,” he says, not meeting Alex’s gaze.

“Before, no.” Time and pain have ways of destroying all certainties of ‘ _before_ ’ until there is only ‘ _now_ ’. Now is rarely kinder, in Alex’s experience.

They reach the bridge before they can go any further into the past, before Alex can use the mortification and indignation of his childish response to unhealed wounds as a weapon to hurt Michael as badly as Michael once hurt him.

His brother is here. On Alex’s ship. There’s every chance Alex might turn a corner and have to face him. He wants nothing more than to curl up in Micahel’s arms and hide from the world, but he can’t.

He’s a Captain. These people, _his_ people, need him to be strong.

His senior crew is already assembled in his ready room. They stand, silently sober sentinels to the seriousness of the situation. There’s not a joke or a smirk or a friendly insult in sight.

Alex moves into his seat and directs them all to theirs. Michael ends up seated next to Flint and they don’t immediately scowl at each other. If there’s any clearer indication that shit’s about to hit the fan, Alex can’t imagine it.

At the end of the table, Kyle desperately tries to catch his eye.

This will hurt him, probably more than it will hurt anyone else in this room.

Kyle knows him well enough to know that there is trauma in Alex’s past. He knows intimate details about both his body and his psyche that few others have ever or will ever be privy to. He’s never asked, never used his position as Alex’s CMO to obtain more information than what is readily available to him, and he’s never once made Alex feel like he’s broken.

If Alex and Michael had never met, Alex knows he would love Kyle with his whole heart. 

Max speaks up first, his usually serious expression exceptionally grave. Alex braces himself for accusations of misconduct, for a vote of no confidence in his leadership.

“I have appraised the crew of the details as I know them,” Evans says, purposely prolonging eye contact. No further comment is made. He simply waits.

Alex nods and wishes he could take a drink of water without being afraid of throwing it back up again.

“Thank you.” He looks at his crew one at a time, memorizing all of the many things he loves and admires about them. “You’ve been informed that the passengers we are currently transporting have been arrested under Section 12 of Federation Law. And that one of them, Anton Karidian, has been accused of being Governor Kodos of the colony planet Tarsus IV.” No one says anything. They’ve all studied Tarsus IV. It’s required learning at the Academy. On the syllabus and everything. Alex wasn’t sober the entire month they studied it in Ethics. “You’ve been informed that this accusation has come from three members of the crew, myself included. What you haven’t been told, what no one has ever been told, is that I am able to make this accusation clearly and of sound mind,” he takes a breath and reaches out with his whole soul for Michael, “because I am one of nine survivors of the Tarsus IV massacre.”

The words taste air and he realizes that it’s the very first time he’s said them. Michael, giant fucking brain and all, figured it out and gave Alex the cowards option of merely nodding, shaking his head, or hyperventilating himself into unconsciousness.

They sound overly formal and oddly disjointed.

Maria is already crying silently. Alex insisted Max give her the option to sit this out - she’s an empath for crying out loud - but she’s here, stubborn and brave, and her eyes glitter at him from the other side of the table. She won’t say anything to him now. She probably can’t. If she’s picking up even a fraction of what he’s feeling…

Cam’s face is expressionless, carved from stone. She’s the one overseeing Kodos’s detention and her poker face is almost as good as Isobel’s.

Liz and Rosa are both pale. Pained. They exchange silent messages written with their eyes. Alex will need to speak to them separately if he wants to get anywhere with either of them.

Kyle puts his head into his hands and doesn’t move.

Flint’s reaction surprises Alex the most. His brother has never once spoken to Alex about Tarsus, though from the few fractured memories he still has of the months following his rescue he knows Flint was around. In his more self-pitying moments, Alex likes to imagine that Flint was the one who sat by his bed and held his hand. He knows it wasn’t his father, and in reality, it’s more likely to have been one of the nurses who cared for him. Still. He’s foolish enough to harbor the fantasy that at least one member of his family gives a fuck if he lives or dies and doesn’t actively try to orchestrate the latter.

Flint looks angry. It’s a rare expression on his usually dispassionate face.

Unsurprisingly, Isobel is the first person with the balls to speak. “I thought Kodos died,” she says. She’s blunt, but not unkind.

“He survived,” Alex says, sharing another precious secret, “though not through lack of trying.”

Cam blinks quickly, her jaw working before she says, “You were that close to him?”

“Jesus, you were what, twelve?” Kyle’s whole demeanor screams devastation.

“Thirteen,” Alex corrects. “And yes. I was that close. What I am about to tell you must never leave this room. If it does, I will not be able to protect you from the shitstorm that will rain down on you from above.”

“Damn,” Rosa whispers as they all wait with bated breath.

“Kodos is a codename, designation Section 31. If you’ve not heard of Section 31, they are a covert branch of Starfleet Intelligence that operate with complete autonomy: they answer only to the President. If you _have_ heard of them, you know why you need to keep your mouths shut.”

He’s never seen Max look so close to panic before. Evans will know exactly who Section 31 are from his previous posting. He knows better than most how far they will go to keep their secrets. “Nothing leaves this room,” Max repeats.

“Good. Kodos is the eldest son of Admiral Jesse Manes.” Alex drops the bomb and waits for the explosion. It doesn’t take long.

“Holy fuck!” Rosa will always be the most passionate of Alex’s senior crew. He loves that about her, and in honesty, there’s not really a better way of summing up the clusterfuck they are in.

“Well, that explains why he never made it to trial,” Cam says. “No offense,” she adds, a nod first too Flint, then to Alex.

“None taken,” Flint says wryly. “Pretty sure the old man gave himself a hernia keeping that one quiet.”

“So Kodos is a Manes. And wait, he was _working_ for Starfleet when he up and ordered a genocide?” Liz always zeros in on the pertinent facts. Alex can see the realization dawn in the eyes of everyone around the table as he nods in response. “He ordered the murder of four thousand people. _Starfleet_ order it.”

“I don’t know if they ordered it, but he was certainly acting on their authority,” Alex says.

“If that got out-“ Liz shakes her head, horror written in every line of her face. “If people knew-“

“Which is why it’s not going to. Our problem right now is Kodos, not the public perception of Starfleet.”

“People have a right to know,” she says. “The victims deserve justice and-“

Alec cuts her off. “The victims are all dead. Of the nine of us who survived, I’m the only one left. Justice isn’t something you or anyone else can give them.”

There's something else he rarely lets himself think about. He's all that's left.

“So the only people who can and would identify him are on this ship. And now he’s here,” Cam clarifies. “If you make one more comment about me assigning you a guard-“

“Do it,” Michael speaks up for the first time.

“Guerin-“

“You accept the guard,” Kyle looks up with red eyes, “or I’m taking you off duty and quarantining you in your quarters until someone’s put that son of a bitch in an airlock.”

“He’s not here to kill me,” Alex says calmly. It’s a competition as to who explodes the loudest. “He’s not.”

“Then why the fuck _is_ he here?” Michael demands.

Alex forces himself to soften and not take his anger as a personal attack. The fact that Michael is here, that he hasn’t already ripped Kodos’s spine out, says a lot about how much he’s matured over the years.

“He’s had fourteen years to kill me,” Alex points out. “Why wait until I am surrounded by highly neurotic, overprotective, trigger happy lunatics?”

“He’s right,” Flint surprisingly comes to his backup. If he carries on this way, Alex is going to assume he’s dealing with a clone. “He wants something else.”

“So let’s ask him,” Cam says calmly.

“Somehow I don’t think he’s just going to tell us,” Isobel rolls her eyes. “Where exactly do you plan to start?”

“The fingernails,” Kyle snarls, hatred in his eyes. “Start there. Then we’ll work our way up.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: discussions of genocide and suggestions of self-harm.
> 
> Extra warnings: Michael and Kyle are left unsupervised.

“I’m taking the test again.” Alex steps into their dorm room ready to fight, his expression set and wary. “I know what you’re gonna say, and-“

“You’re not gonna listen to me, so I’ll save my fucking breath.” Michael’s eight days away from having to defend his thesis in front of Archer and the entire Engineering Faculty. He doesn’t have the energy or the headspace to deal with yet another dose of Alex Manes’s masochistic bullshit. “Fine, Alex, do what the fuck you want.”

His apathy takes the wind right out of Alex’s sails. “Okay then,” he says, nodding more to himself than to Michael. He sets himself down on the edge of his bed and curls his fingers over the sharp folds of the sheets. Nine times out of ten he starts a fight with Michael because he needs someone to push back. He’s testing boundaries, always testing boundaries, and it’s hilarious in a truly fucked up way that someone so set on defining the lines drawn by other people has no fucking clue how to draw them himself.

Michael throws down the small sonic he’s tinkering with and rounds on him with a scowl. “No, you know what? Which fucking asshole signed off on you torturing yourself for the third time? Or was this just another ‘harmless’ dose of nepotism?”

Alex flushes an angry pink. “Bennet agreed. So did Chambers.” But Good Old Jesse Manes will give it the rubber stamp.

Michael snorts disgustedly. “Bennet has his head so far up your dad’s ass they’re practically making out, and Chambers is an incompetent dick.”

 If Alex's knuckles get any tighter on the sheets they're going to tear something. “What do you want me to say, Michael? I asked for permission and I got it. I knew you wouldn’t be happy, but I hoped-”

His chair rocks back as he crosses his arms. If he keeps his palms tucked under his armpits he can't reach out and shake some sense into Alex's messed up, beautiful head. “I’d what? Support you? Sure, Alex, I’ll support this latest attempt to kill yourself.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s a test.” Dramatic, he says. Like the last two attempts didn’t drive him to alcohol poisoning.

“It’s the Kobayashi Maru, and you’ve taken it twice. You already have the record.” Michael sat in as helmsman on both of Alex’s previous tests. It’s a prerequisite for all Command Track students to stand as Captain during a no-win training simulation. It can’t be beaten - it’s statistically impossible: they ran the numbers together the last time - but it’s not supposed to be. Cadets are assessed on their handling of life or death scenarios. Alex’s first attempt scored him a Distinction and a special notation for tactical ability. His second attempt lasted nineteen and a half hours before the simulation finally overcame their efforts. He has beaten the record by a clear ten hours. Cadets and Officers alike shook his hand in the hallways for months.

So, of course, he’s doing it again.

“It’s not about the record,” Alex says, his anger softened to earnestness. “It’s never been about the record.”

“Then _what_ it is? Why the fuck would you want to do this to yourself again?”

“I have to save the crew. I can’t let them die.” From anyone else, Michael would roll his eyes. It’s a fucking simulation. There _are_ no lives at stake.

From Alex…

“It’s designed to be a no-win situation, Alex. Just… accept it. Move on.” He’s not trying to be a dick now. All too often, Alex’s stubborn self-destruction is tangled far too intricately with his trauma to navigate without stepping on a land mine.

Alex squares his shoulders and meets his gaze head-on. “I don’t believe in no-win situations.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Guerin, a word?” Valenti collars Michael before they enter the lifts and they ride down together in awkward silence. He’s left Alex on the bridge in the capable hands of Max and Cam. They’re running over strategies for dealing with Kodos and while Alex has always valued their input in operational decisions in the past, it’s been decided that both the good doctor and himself are too ‘emotionally involved’ in the situation.

That’s code for: Alex is going to make some bullshit gesture of self-sacrifice that will give Michael a fucking aneurysm. Valenti, too, as past arguments indicate.

Which, fine. That’s fine. By the time Alex has decided to put himself back in his psychotic brother’s sights - and he will because that’s how Alex’s fucked up brain works - Michael will have killed the sonovabitch stone cold fucking _dead_.

He’s had years to think about this moment. Sure, the details vary, but the result will still be the same. Kodos is going to die today.

Alone in the lift, Michael asks, “What do you want, Valenti?”

The Doc’s never been one to tiptoe around a subject. “If you get caught, he’ll have to arrest you.”

“Caught doing what?”

Valenti has almost as dramatic an eyeball as Alex does. “Don’t bullshit me. You’re going to kill him.” Michael doesn’t flinch. He grew up with the scum of the universe: murder isn't something that worries him the same way it does normal people. “I’m not here to stop you,” Valenti assures him.

Okay, that’s unexpected. “What happened to the Hippocratic Oath?”

A pained laugh escapes him. “First, do no harm. You know, I read their medical reports. The Nine. Required reading for Trauma Surgeons looking to work in conflict zones out past the Delphi Expanse. I never knew it was Alex. They all had number designations, but-“ he trails off, visibly haunted. He’s a smart guy and now he has the parts he can likely put the puzzle together without any further input from either Michael _or_ Alex. “Pretty sure that letting that monster live will be doing more harm than making sure he dies.”

It occurs to Michael that Valenti might actually have more of an idea what happened to Alex on Tarsus than he does.

Alex can’t talk about it. Just admitting non verbally that he was there left him hyperventilating for an hour and a half while huddled in Michael’s arms.

Part of it is trauma from his actual experiences there. Part of it is the lingering repercussions of a bunch of suits taking one look at the handful of brutalized children and demanding they repress every aspect of their experience in order to stave off an even bigger scandal than it already was.

There’s a massive Tarsus shaped block in Alex’s head, but that doesn’t stop the darkness creeping out around the edges.

Back when he first put two and two together, Michael attempted to dig in deep. He delved past the textbooks and the reports filed with impersonal facts and figures and focused on the statements made by the people on the ground - the first responders and the civilian aid workers.

He knows the details: a widespread crop failure on the colony led to militarized rationing by Kodos, who was then Governor. When mismanagement of remaining stores led to riots, Kodos moved swiftly from martial law to a fucked up eugenics experiment. People were divided into groups: those of value to society and those without. They had supplies for two hundred people and a population of over four thousand.

Those ‘worthy’ two hundred barricaded themselves and their supplies in the city.

The remaining four thousand were sentenced to death. Over half were killed in a brutal twelve-hour mass execution. Those who survived were either rounded up into camps or fled into the mountains.

It took six months before a passing ship landed on the isolated colony and were able to alert Starfleet to the carnage.

Michael read the reports of bodies left to rot in the streets, of the murder and pillaging committed by the desperate survivors, and the brutal bloodsports enacted by Kodos’s guards.

The details of The Nine are largely redacted. If Valenti has read their medical files…

What does it matter? Alex can’t talk about what happened there, and a small part of Michael is fucking grateful. If he had to listen to the person he loves most in the world talk about the horrors he experienced in a place as close to hell as you can get… not much of his heart survived his childhood, and that would break what little he has left.

“Why are you talkin’ to me, Valenti?” Michael can feel the weight of ten years crushing down on his shoulders. He doesn’t need to know all the gory details of what Alex suffered: he’s seen the scars it’s left on both his heart and his mind. He’s held him as he cried and sat with him when fear of nightmares would keep him awake for three days straight. He’s coaxed him out of the small, dark places he would hide in when his mindless terror convinced him that the bad men were there to take him away. He’s championed Alex’s victories and cried for his successes and he’s loved in a way he has always been afraid was beyond him.

He loves Alex Manes with every fractured part of his heart. 

And now he's going to kill the bastard who hurt him.

He's done a whole lot more for a whole lot less. 

“I’m going to help you,” Valenti says, his jaw stubbornly firm.

Michael bursts into a laugh. “Go back to sickbay, Doc.”

The lift comes to a stop but Valenti grabs his wrist and refuses to let him leave. Michael knows six ways to make him let go and none of them end with him ever being able to do surgery again. “You think you’re the only one who cares about him?”

“Oh, I’m sure you _care_ about him, Valenti," Michael sneers.

It takes the Doc a second to follow his meaning before his face flushes with fury. “Christ, you’re a piece of work, Guerin. Fine. You wanna go in there on your own, be my guest. Good luck getting past the Security Officers already briefed to deny your transparently obvious ass from accessing the prisoners.”

Christ, does everyone on this damn ship know he and Alex are fucking? They’ve been subtle, haven’t they?

“No,” Vantini says, clearly reading his fucking mind. “You don’t have a subtle bone in your body.

“Fuck! Fine! What’s your fucking plan?”

Kyle smiles grimly and pulls his hypospray out of his pocket. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updates! It's been a crazy month!

Life at the Academy moves quickly and leaves little room for weakness: it doesn’t take long for reality to set in for the new cadre of cadets.

Starfleet, for all that it is a diplomatic and humanitarian operation, is run as a militaristic institution. There are rules, ranks, systems, and structures, and it gives less of a damn about what you want to do with your life than it does with how you can best serve the system.

If you want to be a pilot, you better be the best damn pilot in your class because _everyone_ wants to be a fucking pilot and there are only so many positions available. If you’re not the best, you’re not going to get one.

Michael doesn’t want to be a pilot, he wants to be an engineer. There’s always a need for engineers. Somehow that doesn’t make it any easier, but only serves to remind cadets that they’re basically replaceable.

You want to _not_ be replaceable?

You better be the best.

Everything, literally _everything_ , depends on your class rankings.

Michael’s worked hard to get to the Academy and he’s not afraid of working even harder to get to the top. He wants to be irreplaceable. He wants to be integral.

He also wants to smash Alex Manes’s pretty head in.

“You don’t even want to _be_ an engineer,” Michael accuses, nose to nose with Alex outside the classroom in which they both share Warp Theory lectures. His PADD is lit up with the week’s rankings, yesterday’s test scores combined with their classwork to give them both a grade and an overall position within the class.

Michael is second. He’s always fucking second.

Which, okay, in their Interspecies Ethics or Xenolinguistics classes, fine. Michael can speak eight languages, which is considered average. Alex, with his fancy education, can speak sixteen. And he has to force himself to stay awake in Ethics. So… fine. Second place is nothing to scoff at there.

But Warp Theory? Stellar Cartography? Fucking Temporal Mechanics? Those are his subjects. His specialties. Science is _his_ thing. Alex is usually too busy trying to be the only first-year cadet to win a spot on the Flight Squad, or picking fights with second-year Command School jackasses like Finnegan.

He does half his assignments in the middle of the fucking _night_!

And he smiles serenely in Michael’s face. “Gonna have to up your game, Guerin,” he says with a flash of pink tongue and a gleam of white teeth.

There are a lot of ways Michael can respond: a punch to the face seems a good start, or maybe a snide comment about nepotism - he certainly won’t be the only one saying it.

Instead, he takes a step closer, right into Alex’s space, and watches the way his dark eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat. He’s frozen in the headlights of Michael’s gaze, a fawn balancing on the edge between surrender and flight.

And then? Then he fucking smirks.

Michael’s never been picky about who or what he fucks and has never been interested in investing the time in a relationship that he plans to leave behind.

But if Alex Manes beats him in one more fucking test?

Michael’s gonna fuck that smirk right off his pretty face.

Three years later, and he’s bending over backward to bring that confidence back. They’ve cycled through the whole spectrum, facets of Alex’s personality shards of gleaming, multicolored crystals, each one individually beautiful, but undeniably broken.

The smartass, hopeful, teasing side of him hasn’t been allowed out to play in a long, long time.

That’s Michael’s fault. Or, well, partly his fault. Mostly his fault. Alex has always known where he’s stood with his father, with his brothers, with _Him_.

With Michael, the ground was supposed to be safe. _He_ was supposed to be safe.

They’re about to graduate and Alex will be class speaker, his Academy ranking so high that half their class already have bets on how long it will take to make Captain.

The past three years, the two of them have been caught in a game of constant one-upmanship. Having to fight Alex for the top spot has made Michael better in ways he’s never imagined he could be. It’s forced him to be resilient, reactive, relentless. Alex has brought out the best in him, right up until he brought out the very worst.

Michael’s not graduating in second place. He’s lucky he’s even allowed to graduate at all.

Alex already has his first posting.

Michael is still being circulated through clearance while the Admiralty decide what to do with him. Most of them have known Alex his whole life and couldn’t give two thirds of a fuck about Michael. If he’s lucky, he’ll end up on some haulage and transport vessel, buried deep in the bowels of an engine room, never to see starlight again.

More likely than not, he’s going to get exiled to some Fleet post on the other side of the galaxy and forgotten about.

With one poor choice, Michael has lost his career, his future, and his hope.

And he’s lost Alex.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hello, Michael. Doctor.”

Kodos hasn’t changed much over the past decade. He’s still got that handsome, enigmatic quality about him that draws people like flies to honey. It’s a kind of charisma Alex has as well and in truth the two of them are very much alike.

The whole genocidal maniac thing aside.

“Asshole,” Michael sneers. “Still alive?”

Kodos sits on the edge of a neatly made bunk. The room has all the amenities of one of the junior officer’s quarters: it’s not luxurious like the diplomatic suites, or large like Alex’s quarters, but it’s still far too good for the likes of a baby murdering, child-abusing murdering asshole like Kodos. From the furious look on Valenti’s face, he obviously agrees.

“And thriving,” Kodos says. “It’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”

Not fucking long enough. He’s had years to try to forget that terrifyingly sane smile and he’ll need at least another twenty before he can even start to move past the devastation Kodos has left in his wake.

“If you think for one fucking second I’m letting you anywhere near Alex again-“

“How is my little brother?” Kodos asks, his brow furrowed in concern. Truly one of the most terrifying things about him has always been his ability to fake emotion. The worry in his eyes almost looks real, and it's easy to fall for his manipulations if you don’t know that’s what he’s doing. Michael's learned that the hard way. “He looked pale. Are you taking care of him, Michael? You know he needs a firm hand.”

He catches Valenti’s arm before he can punch Kodos in the jaw. He’s in no way _against_ anyone beating seven shades of shit out of the fucker, he knows better than to let him under his skin. “You’d know all about firm hands, wouldn’t you? Is that why you’re here?”

“As happy as I am to see Alex,” Kodos stands and moves towards them, “no. _He’s_ not why I’m here.”

“No?” Kyle demands, teeth bared. “Why would we believe that?”

“When I kill him, I plan on making it worth the wait. Sadly, that requires time I don’t have to spare right now.” A shiver runs down his spine. He has no doubt that Kodos means it: Alex has always known his brother is going to come for him one day, and that he'll likely suffer a slow, agonizing death at his hands. He seems to think it inevitable. A when, not an if. 

Michael has sworn on his mother's unmarked grave that he'll die before he lets that happen. 

“Right. Because life is just so hectic when you’re on the run and wanted for genocide. You got some pressing social engagement?”

“Me?” Kodos flashes pearly white teeth. “No. Not at all. You, on the other hand, are running quite late.” Games. It's always a fucking game...

Michael feels the way Valenti tenses in poorly disguised surprise. “What the fuck do you want with me?” He knows even as he asks the question what kind of mistake he’s making. You don’t give Kodos leverage like curiosity. The man is a walking mind fuck and he’s already had his claws in Michael once. Last time, it ended badly for everyone involved. This time, he wants to say he’s prepared.

He’s not prepared.

Valenti, at least, will ensure Alex is protected from any fuck up Michael might make.

“Consider me more of a mediator,” Kodos says serenely. “See, I am in something of a difficult situation here, Michael. I’ve got one group of people paying me to cut your head off, and I’ve got another paying me to bring the lost Star of Antar back home alive. Both sides have been very… shall we say, aggressive? As I’d like both the credits and for my head to remain atop my shoulders, I've had to ask myself if it’s in any way possible to kill two birds with one stone.”

Michael hasn’t heard the name of his home planet in a very, very long time.

Hearing it from Kodos’s mouth is not a good thing. “What the fuck do you want?” he demands, his voice unsteady and his hands trembling. Valenti steps closer, his shoulder brushing Michael’s in a silent gesture of support.

Kodos frowns. “To kill you, obviously. And to return you, alive, to your home.”

“Can’t do both,” Michael mocks. He’s honestly not sure which option is scarier: being the target of Kodos’s bloodlust, or a tool for him to barter with.

“I thought so, too,” Kodos nods. “Apparently, I was wrong.”

Michael’s forgotten, in the face of Kodos’s pleasant demeanor and formal robes, that he is just as capable of physical violence as he is of physiological violence.

A split second, a fracture of a heartbeat, and suddenly something warm hits him square in the throat. It throws him out of his body completely, ripping the seam between his physical being and his soul and rendering them two separate entities.

He can only watch, horrified, as his body crumples into a heap on the ground.

Valenti shouts his name.

Kodos smiles.

Michael hovers, a flickering beam of light, incorporeal and adrift, as his body dies in front of him.

 


End file.
